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ADVENTURES OE TELEMACHUS 



BY 



FENELON 



TRANSLATED BY DR. HAWKESWORTH 



A LIFE OF FENELON 

Br LAMARTINE 

AN ESSAY ON HIS GENIUS AND CHARACTER 
By VILLEHAIN 

CRITICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES 

ETC. ETC. 
EDITED BY 

O. W. WIGHT, A. M. 



NEW YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 

(Eambrflrge: 3&fbersttre $ress 

1872. 






^a^ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, 

By 0. W. WIGHT, 

til the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 

Southern District of New York. 






to 

JUN • »*» 



SELECT 



WORKS OF FENELON. 



vol. l 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



This first volume of such of the "Works of Fenelon as 
we think worthy of being reproduced in English dress, 
is composed of : — 1st, Lamartine's Life of Fenelon ; 2d, 
an Essay on the Genius and Character of Fenelon, by 
M. Yillemain; 3d, Critical Opinions upon Fenelon 
and his Works ; 4th, a Bibliographical Notice ; and 
5th, " The Adventures of Telemachus." 

Lamartine's Life of Fenelon is full in detail, most 
eloquent in style and matter, and heartily sympathetic. 
We have used the translation made in England for 
Mr. Bentley, but have compared it, sentence by sen- 
tence, with the original, and have corrected it in many 
places. The translation is good, and our corrections 
have been made in the same spirit in which we should 
like to be corrected ourselves. 

The article of M. Yillemain, which he calls a " No- 
tice," we have entitled an Essay on the Character and 
Genius of Fenelon. Lamartine judges the good Arch- 
bishop of Cambray from an historical and political point 
of view ; Yillemain judges him as a writer and a mor- 
alist, and assigns him his place in French literature. 
The fine article, "Fenelon," in the "Encyclopaedia 
Britannica," has been literally taken, without acknowl- 



edgment, from this Notice of Yillemain. In our trans- 
lation of it we have endeavored to give the sense, but 
have not hoped to preserve the pleasing eloquence and 
delicate aesthetic finish of the original. 

The Critical Opinions upon Fenelon and his Works 
are not designed to forestall or exhaust criticism, but 
to show, as nearly as may be, through representative 
critics, in what estimation Fenelon is held by English 
readers. 

The aim of the Bibliographical Notice is to point 
out at a glance the subjects that engaged the attention 
of Fenelon, and to afford exact information in regard 
to the best editions of his works. 

" Telemachus," which forms the body of the book, is 
in the translation of Dr. Hawkesworth. The transla- 
tion is well known and excellent, but we have revised 
it from beginning to end. Every word of it has been 
compared with the original in the edition of Lefevre. 
Our corrections amount to thousands, but many of them 
are merely verbal and unimportant. Here and there 
the Doctor has waxed enthusiastic, and has added 
matter quite his own, which we have invariably elim- 
inated. Very often the vivacity of the original has 
been weakened by throwing many well-balanced pe- 
riods into one long, rambling sentence, "tediously 
drawling its < ands.' " We have checked him in form 
as well as matter. But, in all fairness, we must give 
him a chance to be heard, and here introduce his 
preface : 

" The Telemachus of the celebrated Archbishop of 
Cambray is a work of such reputation that it would be 
scarce less absurd to recommend it than to recom- 



mend the writings of Homer and Yirgil : it holds the 
first class among the moral works of imagination in 
France ; it has passed through innumerable editions ; 
art has been exhausted to adorn it, and learning to il- 
lustrate its beauties ; it has been translated into every 
language in Europe, the Turkish not excepted; and 
there are no less than five translations of it in our own. 
To translate it, indeed, is easy ; but to translate it so 
as to give it the same rank in a foreign language that 
it holds in the original, is difficult. It has generally 
been thought that a perfect knowledge of the corre- 
sponding words, through all their inflexions, in two 
languages, is a sufficient qualification to translate one 
into the other ; and, consequently, that a fine book in 
one language will, in the hands of a translator so quali- 
fied, necessarily become a fine book in another. This, 
however, is so far from being true, that a book which 
has any merit besides that of truth and sentiment in 
the abstract, will be bad in the version, in proportion 
as it is good in the original, if the translator be quali- 
fied only for verbal interpretation. 

" To translate a work of fancy, which owes great part 
of its power to poetical beauties and elegance of com- 
position, some taste for poetry and some skill in writ- 
ing is certainly necessary, of which all who have hith- 
erto translated Fenelon's Telemachus into English were 
totally destitute: their versions, indeed, are, in gen- 
eral, too much the same ; that, one having failed, it is 
difficult to conceive what encouraged the hope that 
another would succeed. My translation is, at least, 
very different from all others ; and yet I have scrupu- 
lously preserved, not only every incident and every 



8 

sentiment, but even every metaphor, as far as the dif- 
ferent genius of the two languages would admit. 

" To those who have read this w T ork only as an exer- 
cise at school, its beauties are wholly unknown ; and 
among those that have learned French in this country, 
there is not, probably, above one in fifty who can now 
read it in the original with more advantages than a na- 
tive of France would read Pope's Rape of the Lock in 
a prose translation. 

" To both these, therefore, as well as to persons who 
are wholly unacquainted with the French language, 
this version, if I have been able to accomplish my pur- 
pose, may be acceptable ; it may also facilitate and 
sweeten the labor of those that are learning it ; it may 
give them a relish for a book that will probably be 
put into their hands; and though it may not much 
assist them in a mere verbal construction, it may per- 
haps show them its insufficiency, and excite an attempt 
to transfuse the spirit with the sense. 

" My principal view, however, was much more ex- 
tensive than to assist learners of the French language. 
I have attempted to render a work full of ingenious 
fiction, just reasoning, important precepts, and poetical 
imagery, as pleasing in English as it is in French, to 
those who read it as their native tongue. If I have 
succeeded, I have not only made a valuable addition 
to our polite literature, but rendered my country a 
much more important service, by putting into the 
hands of our youth one of the few books which genius 
and learning have dedicated to virtue, which at once 
captivates the imagination, informs the understanding, 
and regulates the will." 



9 

We are sure that our corrections are, for the most 
part, just such as Dr. Hawkesworth would have ac- 
cepted from any friend who might have assisted him 
in revising his work for the press. 

We have added, in the form of foot-notes, literal 
translations of those passages of the ancient authors 
which Fenelon formally imitated. These passages 
were first collected in the Hamburg edition of 1732, 
and have often been reproduced since. Most will 
thank us for giving translations of them, instead of 
leaving them in the Greek and Latin original. 

Scholars will understand us when we simply say 
that we have corrected the translation of Dr. Hawkes- 
worth by the text of Lefevre, who has himself followed 
that of the Abbe Caron. 

We have also followed Lefevre in dividing Telem- 
achus iato eighteen instead of twenty-four books. 
"The manuscripts," says the French editor, "indu- 
bitably prove that the author divided it into eighteen 
books. The Marquis de Fenelon, who first introduced, 
in his edition of 1717, the division into twenty-four 
books, says that his uncle had thus divided 'Telema- 
chus,' in imitation of the 'Iliad;' but this assertion 
lacks valid proofs ; and although the parole of a man 
so justly esteemed is entitled to great consideration, 
still the hand of the author himself must have, in this 
question of literary criticism, a much higher authority." 

O. W. Wight. 

January, 1858. 

1* 



CONTENTS. 



Life of Fenelon, by Lamartine 19 

Essay on the Character and Genius of Fenelon, by Villemain. 117 

Critical Opinions upon Fenelon and his Works 139 

The Works of Fenelon 149 



TELEMACHUS 



BOOK I. 

Telemachus, conducted by Minerva under the likeness of Mentor, lands, 
after having suffered shipwreck, upon the island of the goddess Calypso, 
who is still regretting the departure of Ulysses. The goddess receives 
him favorably, conceives a passion for him, offers him immortality, and 
inquires after his adventures. He recounts his voyage to Pylos and 
Lacedaemon ; his shipwreck on the coast of Sicily; the danger he was 
in of heing offered as a sacrifice to the manes of Anchises ; the assistance 
which Mentor and he gave Acestes against an incursion of barbarians, 
and the gratitude of the king, who, to reward their service, gave them 
a Tyrian vessel, that they might return to their country 149 



BOOK II. 

Telemachus relates his being taken in the Tyrian vessel by the fleet of 
Sesostris, and carried captive into Egypt. He describes the beauty of 
the country, and the wise government of its king. He relates also that 
Mentor was sent a slave into Ethiopia ; that he was himself reduced 
to keep sheep in the deserts of Oasis; that in this state he was com- 
forted by Termosiris, a priest of Apollo, who taught him to imitate that 
god, who had once been the shepherd of Admetus ; that Sesostris, hav- 



12 CONTENTS. 

ing at length heard with astonishment what his influence and example 
had effected among the shepherds, determined to see him, and being 
convinced of his innocence, promised to send him to Ithaca, but that the 
death of Sesostris overwhelmed him with new calamities; and that he 
was imprisoned in a tower which overlooked the sea, from whence he 
saw Bocchoris, the new king, slain in a battle against part of his subjects, 
who had revolted, and had called in the Tyrians to their assistance. 166 



BOOK III. 

Telemachus relates that, the successor of Bocchoris releasing all the Tyrian 
prisoners, he was himself sent to Tyre, on board the vessel of Narbal, 
who had commanded the Tyrian fleet ; that Narbal gave him a descrip- 
tion of Pygmalion their king, and expressed apprehensions of danger 
from the cruelty of his avarice; that he afterwards instructed him in 
the commercial regulations of Tyre ; and that, being about to embark in 
a Cyprian vessel, in order to proceed by the isle of Cyprus to Ithaca, 
Pygmalion discovered that he was a stranger, and ordered him to be 
seized ; that his life was thus brought into the most imminent danger, 
but that he had been preserved by the tyrant's mistress Astarbe, that 
she might, in his stead, destroy a young Lyctian of whom she had been 
enamored, but who rejected her for another ; that he finally embarked 
in a Cyprian vessel, to return to Ithaca by the way of Cyprus 185 



BOOK IV. 

Calypso interrupts Telemachus in his relation, that he may retire to rest. 
Mentor privately reproves him for having undertaken the recital of his 
adventures; but as he has begun, advises him to proceed. Telemachus 
relates that during his voyage from Tyre to Cyprus, he dreamed that 
he was protected from Venus and Cupid by Minerva; that he after- 
wards imagined he saw Mentor, who exhorted him to fly from the isle 
of Cyprus ; that when he awaked, the vessel would have perished in a 
Btorm if he had not himself taken the helm, the Cyprians being all intox- 
icated with wine; that when he arrived on the island, he saw, with 
horror, the most contagious examples of debauchery; but that Ilazael, 
the Syrian, to whom Mentor had been sold, happening to be at Cyprus 
at the same time, brought the two friends together, and took them on 
board his vessel that was bound to Crete; that during the voyage, he 
had seen Amphitrite drawn in her chariot by sea-horses — a sight infi- 
nitely entertaining and magnificent 204 



BOOK V. 

Telemachus relates, that when he arrived at Crete, he learnt that Idome- 
neue, the king of that island, had, in consequence of a rash vow, sacri- 



CONTENTS. 13 

Jiced his only son ; that the Cretans, to revenge the muider, had driven 
him out of the country ; that after long uncertainty they were then 
assembled to elect a new sovereign ; that he was admitted into the as- 
sembly ; that he obtained the prize in various exercises ; having also 
resolved the questions that had been recorded by Minos in the book 
of his laws, the sages, who were judges of the contest, and all the 
people, seeing his wisdom, would have made him king ; that he refused 
the royalty of Crete to return to Ithaca; that he proposed Mentor, but 
that Mentor also refused to be king; that the Cretans then pressing 
Mentor to appoint a king for them, he relates to them what he heard of 
the virtues of Aristodemus, whom they immediately proclaimed ; that 
Mentor and Telemachus having embarked for Italy, Neptune, to gratify 
the resentment of Venus, shipwrecked them on the island of Calypso, 
where the goddess received them with hospitality and kindness.... 221 



BOOK VI. 

Calypso admires Telemachus for his adventures, and exerts all her power 
to detain him in her island, by inciting him to return her passion ; but 
he is sustained by the wisdom and friendship of Mentor, as well against 
her artifices as against the power of Cupid, whom Venus sends to her 
assistance. Telemachus, however, and Eucharis become mutually enam- 
ored of each other, which provokes Calypso first to jealousy, and then 
to rage. She swears, by the Styx, that Telemachus shall leave her island, 
and engages Mentor to build a ship to take him back to Ithaca. She is 
consoled by Cupid, who excites the nymphs to burn the vessel which 
had been built by Mentor, while Mentor was laboring to get Telemachus 
On board. Telemachus is touched with a secret joy at this event. Men- 
tor, who perceives it, throws him from a rock into the sea, and leaps 
after him, that they may swim to another vessel which appeared not far 
distant from the shore 251 



BOOK VII. > 

The vessel proves to be a Tyrian, commanded by Adoam, the brother of 
Narbal, by whom the adventurers are kindly received. Adoam recol- 
lects Telemachus, and relates the tragical death of Pygmalion and 
Astarbe, and the accession of Baleazar, whom the tyrant his father had 
disgraced at her instigation. During a banquet which he prepares for 
his guests, Achitoas entertains them with music, which brings the Tri- 
tons, the Nereids, and other divinities of the sea, in crowds around the 
vessel. Mentor, taking up a lyre, plays much better than Achitoas. 
Adoam relates the wonders of Boetica: he describes the soft tempera- 
ture of the air, and the beauties of the country, where the utmost sim- 
plicity of manners secures to the people uninterrupted tranquillity. 274 



14 CONTENTS. 



BOOK VIII. 

Venus, still incensed against Telemachus, requests of Jupiter that he rnaj 
perish ; hut this not being permitted by the Fates, the goddess consults 
with Neptune how his return to Ithaca, whither Adoam is conducting 
him, may be prevented. They employ an illusive divinity to deceive 
A cam as the pilot, who, supposing the land before him to be Ithaca, 
enters full sail into the port of Salentum. Telemachus is kindly received 
by Idomeneus in his new city, where he is preparing a sacrifice to Jupi- 
ter, that he maybe successful in a war against the Mandurians. The 
entrails of the victims being consulted by the priest, he perceives the 
omens to be happy, but declares that Idomeneus will owe his good for- 
tune to his guests 297 



BOOK IX. 

Idomeneus acquaints Mentor with the cause of the war: he tells hirr that 
the Mandurians ceded to him the coast of Ilesperia, where he had 
founded his new city as soon as he arrived ; that they withdrew to the 
neighboring mountains, where having been ill-treated by some of his 
people, they had sent deputies with whom he had settled articles of 
peace; and that after a breach of that treaty, on the part of Idomeneus, 
by some hunters who knew nothing of it, the Mandurians prepared to 
attack him. During this recital, the Mandurians, having already taken 
arms, appear at the gates of Salentum. Nestor, Philoetetes, and Pha- 
lanthus, whom Idomeneus supposed to be neuter, appear to have joined 
them with their forces. Mentor goes out of Salentum alone, and pro- 
poses new conditions of peace. Telemachus seeing Mentor in the midst 
of the allies, is impatient to know what passes between them. lie causes 
the gates of Salentum to be opened, and joins his friend. II is presence 
inclines the allies to accept the terms that Mentor has offered on the 
part of Idomeneus. The allies enter Salentum as friends. Idomeneus 
confirms the propositions of Mentor ; hostages are reciprocally given ; and 
all parties assist at a sacrifice between the city and the camp, as a 
solemn ratification of the treaty 814 



BOOK X. 

Nestor, in the name of the allies, demands succors of Idomeneus against 
their enemies the Daunians. Mentor, who is desirous to establish proper 
regulations for the internal government of Salentum, and to employ the 
people in agriculture, finds means to satisfy them with a hundred noble 
Cretans, under the command of Telemachus. After their departure, 
Mentor proceeds to a minute examination of the city and the port; and, 
having acquainted himself with every particular, lie prevails upon Idom- 



CONTENTS. 15 

eneus to institute new principles of government and commerce, — to 
divide his people into seven classes, distinguishing them with respect to 
their rank and quality by different habits,— to retrench luxurj and unne- 
cessary arts, and to employ the artificers in husbandry, which lie brings 
into just reputation 339 



BOOK XL 

Idomeneus relates to Mentor his confidence in Protesilaus, and the artifices 
of that favorite, in concert with Timocrates, to betray him and destroy 
Philocles. lie confesses, that being prejudiced against him by these 
confederates, he sent Timocrates to kill him while he was abroad with 
the command of a fleet upon a dangerous expedition. Timocrates hav- 
ing failed in his attempt, Philocles forbore to avenge himself by taking 
his life, but, resigning the command of the fleet to Polymenes, who had 
been appointed to succeed him in the written orders for his death, he 
retired to the isle of Samos. Idomeneus adds that he at length discov- 
ered the perfidy of Protesilaus, but that, even then, he could not shake 
off his influence. Mentor prevails upon Idomeneus to banish Protesi- 
laus and Timocrates to the island of Samos, and recall Philocles to his 
confidence and councils. Ilegesippus, who is charged with this order, 
executes it with joy. lie arrives with his prisoners at Samos, where he 
finds his friend Philocles in great indigence and obscurity, but content. 
He at first refuses to return, but the gods having signified it to be their 
pleasure, he embarks with Ilegesippus, and arrives at Salentum, where 
Idomeneus, who now sustains a new character, receives him with great 
friendship 366 



BOOK XII. 

Telemachus, in the camp of the allies, gains the friendship of Philoctetes, 
who was not at first favorably disposed to him, on his father's account. 
Philoctetes relates his adventures, and introduces a particular account 
of the death of Hercules by the poisoned garment which the centaur 
Nessus had given to Dejanira. He relates how he obtained from that 
hero his poisoned arrows, without which the city of Troy could not have 
been taken ; how he was punished for betraying his secret, by various 
Bufferings, in the island of Lemnos ; and how Ulysses employed Neoptol- 
emus to engage him in the expedition against Troy, where he was cured 
of his wound 396 



BOOK XIII. 

Telemachus quarrels with Phalanthus about some prisoners, to which eacli 
of them lays claim : he fights and vanquishes Hippias, who, despising his 
youtn, had seized the prisoners in question for his brother; but being 



16 CONTENTS. 

afterwards ashamed of his victory, he laments in secret his rashness and 
indiscretion, for which he is very desirous to atone. At the same time 
Adrastus, king oftheDaunians, being informed that the allies were wholly 
taken up in reconciling Telemachus and Hippias, marches to attack them 
by surprise. After having seized a hundred of their vessels to trans- 
port his own troops to their camp, he first sets it on fire, and then falls 
upon Phalanthus 1 quarters. Phalanthus himself is desperately wounded, 
and his brother Hippias slain. Telemachus, having put on his divine 
armor, runs to the assistance of Phalanthus; he kills Iphicles, the son 
of Adrastus, repulses the victorious enemy, and would have put an end 
to the war if a tempest had not intervened. Telemachus orders the 
wounded to be carried off, and takes great care of them, particularly of 
Phalanthus. He performs the solemnities of the funeral of Hippias him- 
self, and having collected his ashes in a golden urn, presents them to 
his brother 413 



BOOK XIV. 

Telemachus being persuaded, by several dreams, that his father Ulysses 
was no longer alive, executes his design of seekinsr him among the dead. 
He retires from the camp, and is followed by two Cretans as far as a 
temple near the celebrated cavern ot Acherontia. He enters it, and 
descends through the gloom to the borders of the Styx, where Charon 
takes him into his boat. He presents himself before Pluto, who, in 
obedience to superior powers, permits him to seek his father. He passes 
through Tartarus, and is witness to the torments that are inflicted upon 
ingratitude, perjury, impiety, hypocrisy, and above all upon bad kings. 
He then enters the Elysian Fields, where he is known by his great 
grandfather, Arcesius, who assures him that Ulysses is still alive, that 
lie shall see him in Ithaca, and succeed to his throne. Arcesius de- 
scribes the felicity of the just, especially of good kings, who have rever- 
enced the "rods and given happiness to their people. He makes Telem- 
achus observe that heroes, tho*e who have excelled only in the arts of 
destruction, have a much less glorious reward, and are allotted a separate 
district by themselves. Telemachus receives some general instructions, 
and then returns back to the camp 443 



BOOK XV. 

Venusium havingr been left as a deposit by both parties in the hands of the 
Lucanians, Telemachus declares against seizing it in an assembly of the 
chiefs, and persuades them to be of his opinion. He discovers great 
penetration and sagacity with respect to two deserters, one of whom, 
Acanthus, had undertaken to poison him ; and the other, Dioscorus, had 
offered to bring him Adrastus' head. In the battle which soon after 
follows, Telemachus strews the field with dead in search of Adrastus. 



CONTENTS. 17 

Adrastu?., who is also in search of Telemachus, engraves and kills Pisis- 
tratns, the son of Nestor; 1'hiloctetes comes up, and, at the moment 
when he is about to pierce Adrastus, is himself wounded, and obliged to 
retire. Telemachus, alarmed by the cry of his friends, among whom 
Adrastus is making a terrible slaughter, rushes to their assistance. He 
engayes Adrastus, and prescribes conditions upon which he gives him 
his life. Adrastus, rising from the ground, attempts treacherously to 
kill his conqueror by surprise, who engages him a second time, and kills 
him 474 



BOOK XVI. 

The chiefs assemble to deliberate upon the demand of the Daunians, that 
one of their own nation may be given them for a king. Nestor, being 
inconsolable for the loss of his son, absents himself from the assembly 
of the chiefs, where some are of opinion that the conquered lands should 
be divided among them, and allot the territory of Arpi to Telemachus. 
Telemachus rejects this offer, and convinces the chiefs that it is their 
common interest to appoint Polydamas king of the Daunians, and leave 
them in possession of their country. He afterwards persuades the 
Daunians to bestow Arpi upon Diomedes, who had accidentally landed 
upon their coast. Hostilities being now at an end, the allies separate, 
and every one returns to his country 496 



BOOK XVII. 

Telemachus, on his return to Salentum, is surprised to see the country so 
well cultivated, and to find so little appearance of magnificence in the 
city. Mentor accounts for these alterations, and points out the principal 
causes that prevent national prosperity. He proposes the conduct and 
government of Idomener.s as a model. Telemachus discovers to Men- 
tor his desire to marry the daughter of Idomeneus, Antiope. Mentor 
approves of the choice, and assures him that she is designed for him by 
the gods ; but that at present he should think only of returning to 
Ithaca, and delivering Penelope from her suitors. Idomeneus, fearing 
the departure of his guests, proposes several embarrassing affairs to 
Mentor, and assures him that without his assistance they cannot be ad- 
justed. Mentor lays down general principles for his conduct, but con- 
tinues steady in his purpose of departing with Telemachus for Ithaca. 
Idomeneus tries another expedient to detain them : he encourages the 
passion of Telemachus for Antiope, and engages him and Mentor in a 
hunting party with his daughter. She is in the utmcst danger from a 
wild boar, but is delivered by Telemachus. He feels great reluctance to 
leave her, and has not fortitude to bid Idomeneus farewell. Being en- 
couraged by Mentor, he surmounts his difficulties, and embarks for his 
country 510 



18 CONTENTS. 



BOOK XVIII. 

lelemachus, during the voyage, prevails upon Mentor to explain many dif- 
ficulties in the art of government, particularly that of distinguishing the 
characters of men, so as to employ the good, and avoid being deceived 
by the bad. During this conversation, a calm obliges them to put into a 
little island where Ulysses had just gone ashore. Telemachus sees and 
speaks to him without knowing who he is; but, after having seen him 
embark, feels a secret uneasiness, of which he cannot imagine the cause. 
Mentor explains it, and comforts him, assuring him that he shall soon 
meet with his father again. He puts his patience and piety to another 
trial, by detaining him to sacrifice to Minerva. Finally, the goddess, 
who had been concealed under the figure of Mentor, resumes her own 
form, and is known and acknowledged by Telemachus. She gives him 
her last instructions, and disappears. Telemachus arrives in Ithaca, and 
finds his father at the house of his faithful servant Eumenes 689 



LIFE OF FENELON, 

BY LAMARTINE. 



A. D. 1651—1715. 



Of all modern men, Fenelon bears the sir ingest resemblance 
to the sages of antiquity. His countenance is beautiful as that 
portrayed by Raphael when he represents St. John slumbering 
upon the bosom of his Divine Master. His conversation 
while traversing the gardens of Versailles resembles that ol 
Plato amid the shades of Academus. He holds the lyre of 
Homer, and sings, like one inspired, the sacred records of the 
past; he inhabits the dwelling of a monarch illustrious as 
Cyrus, or Sesostris, where he gives lessons of wisdom, heroism, 
and divine morality to the young prince. He walks clothed 
in the sacred robe of the temple, through the corridors of a 
palace. He passes from the court to the altar, from solitude 
to the encounter of wit with politicians and learned men, to 
the society of courtiers and favorites of his royal master. We 
behold him as a legislator and a poet, a statesman and a pontiff, 
desirous of associating Christian love and charity with the 
councils of government ; and of seeing, as in ancient Egypt, 
religious and civil law hand in hand with the politics of 
empire. In the antechamber of despotic power, he meditates 
upon the institutions of -liberty. He penetrates as it were 
from the sublime height of his piety, the perfections and 
chimeras of that political code, which became the germ and 
sometimes the snare of those philosophic legislators, the parents 
of the French Revolution. His lamentations over the condi- 



20 WORKS OF FENELON. 

tion of the people, and the lessons he inculcates in his youthful 
pupil, disquiet the king, who, fearing to see the spirit of royalty 
degenerate in his heir, from that exaggerated virtue which, 
desirous of changing an empire into a Utopia, opens (though 
with good intent) a yawning gulf of destruction, banishes 
Fenelon from the seat of government. The philosopher retires 
weeping over the destiny of his country and his prince. He 
seeks and finds the consolations of religion, and in his solitude 
shows an example of that virtue so difficult of attainment to 
men of genius — humility. Unable to improve the legislature, 
he seeks but to govern and sanctify his own spirit, and dies in 
his retreat the victim of inactivity and a holy sadness. His 
works and noble qualities expand and multiply from his tomb, 
as the liquid rushes from a vase, broken and crushed beneath 
the feet of its destroyers; while his name becomes the type of 
poetry, of political wisdom, and of all goodness, during two 
centuries. 

Such is Fenelon. Shall he not be called the Pythagoras or 
Plato of France ? Let us now trace this life, one of the most 
beautiful of the latter ages. 

Fenelon was a descendant of a noble military family of 
Pcrigord, who, living sometimes in the camp, sometimes in the 
retirement of their native province, and surrounded only by 
rustics, were untainted by the air of courts. His father, Pons 
de Salignac, Comte de Fenelon, retired from the army, and 
married Isabelle d'Esparbes, by whom he had several children. 
A widower and somewhat advanced in years, he entered into 
a second alliance with Louise de Saint-Abre, 1 the daughter of 
a noble house in the same province. This union was the 
cause of much annoyance to his children, who murmured 
against the conduct of their father. They feared that the 
probable increase of family would so diminish the inheritance 
of each, as to cause their decline from the high rank they had 
hitherto held in the country. Antoine de Fenelon, the uncle 
of these young people, having been informed of their com- 

1 Louise de lit Cropte, sister of the Marquis de Saint-Abre. — Ed. 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 21 

plaints, wrote to his nephews, rebuking their opposition in a 
letter, preserved amid the family archives. 

" Learn," said he, " to bow with deference and respect to 
the wishes of your father : Providence has ever its secret 
intentions, unfathomable to the eyes of men. Often the 
fortune and exaltation of a house proceed from causes opposed 
to the desires of our short-sighted wisdom." It might have 
been said, that this uncle, gifted with prophecy, foresaw in the 
child still unborn, the lasting glory of their name. 

The first offspring of this marriage was Francis Fenelon, 
Archbishop of Cambray. The son of an old father and a 
youthful mother, he was endowed by nature w r ith the mature 
wisdom of the one and the graces of the other. Cherished in 
the paternal mansion, like a late and delicate fruit, till the age 
of twelve years, he was brought up beneath the eyes of his 
parents. As he grew to maturity, the clear sense of his father 
and the sweet tenderness of his mother reappeared in his mind, 
his conduct, and his writings. 

Under a domestic preceptor the first food offered to his 
imagination was the study of sacred literature, with the Greek 
and Latin classics. His heart and reason, thus modelled 
upon all that was good and beautiful in antiquity, naturally 
took a noble form and coloring. It may be said that though 
this child was born in France during the seventeenth century, 
his genius was conceived at Athens in the age of Pericles. 
His education, was finished at the University of Cahors. The 
fame of his brilliant qualities, resounding from the precincts of 
his school, reached the ears of Antoine de Fenelon, the same 
uncle who had proved so true an augur before the infant's 
birth. This relative, having now attained a high rank in the 
army, invited his nephew to join him in Paris. The youth 
was destined to the priesthood, being looked upon as a burden 
on the family, which they w T ere desirous of transferring to the 
Church. His philosophical and theological studies were pur- 
sued with increased success in the eminent schools of Paris. 
His natural, versatile, and precocious genius developed itself 
more brilliantly there than at Cahors, while his talents and 



22 WORKS OF FENELON. 

graceful accomplishments gained the attachment of many 
eminent friends. The lustre of glory and admiration, by 
which the young Fenelon was surrounded, excited the appre 
hensions of his venerable uncle, who hastened to withdraw his 
nephew from the seductions of friendship and society, by 
sending him to the seminary of St. Sulpice, where he wsf& to 
enter on his novitiate. 

While Fenelon pursued his sacred studies, his uncle, desirous 
of teaching his own son the rudiments of war, conducted him 
to the siege of Candia, against the Turks. The young man 
fell in the first assault, struck by a ball, and expired in his 
father's arms. The old warrior returned to Paris, bringing 
with him the body of his son. He now only possessed a 
daughter, whom he bestowed in marriage upon the Marquis de 
Montmorency-Laval, of the illustrious house bearing the same 
name. The loss of his only son attached Antoine de Fenelon 
still more strongly to his nephew. Good and pious himself, he 
desired for the young neophite no ecclesiastical honors, but 
only the reward of piety and virtue. 

The ardent imagination of the young priest carried him to 
the point of enthusiasm in his profession. He formed the 
resolution of leaving the cloister, to enroll himself among the 
missionaries who were endeavoring to convert Canada to 
Christianity, and of consecrating his life like the first preachers 
of the Gospel, to the rescue of heathen souls in the forests of 
the New World. He was irresistibly attracted by the resem- 
blance which the devotion and self-denial of these modern 
Thebaids bore to the apostles of old. His ardent imagination 
from early youth, and throughout his entire existence, mingled 
itself with all his dreams, and even with his virtues. Thus, ov# 
destined to improve courts and to instruct monarchs, desired 
only to civilize savages in the solitude of a desert. The 
Governor of St. Sulpice, a wise and prudent man, informed M. 
Antoine de Fenelon of the resolution taken by his young 
pupil. The uncle remonstrated affectionately with his nephew 
upon this mistaken vocation, which would extinguish in the 
forests of America, a flame lighted by the Almighty to shed 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTTNE. 23 

radiance upon an accomplished age. Fenelon was obstinate ; 
his family insisted, and sent him to the house of another 
uncle, the Bishop of Sarlat, who solemnly forbade his embark- 
ing upon this perilous enterprise, and commanded him to 
return to St. Sulpice, to complete his novitiate, and take the 
final vows of his sacred order. The young man obeyed, 
became a priest, and remained in Paris, where for three years 
he employed himself on Sundays and holidays in the vestry of 
the Church of St. Sulpice, by instructing the children of the 
poor. His uncle, the Bishop of Sarlat, summoned him to his 
diocese from these humble avocations, to offer himself as repre- 
sentative of the clergy of his province at the General Assembly. 
The youth of Fenelon defeated his uncle's ambition, and 
another ecclesiastic of high birth gained the necessary votes. 

Fenelon, while at Sarlat, revived his earnest desire of 
becoming an errant apostle for the conversion of the heathen. 
He wrote thus : " I meditate a great voyage. Greece opens to 
my footsteps; Mohammedanism recoils; the Peloponnesus 
becomes again free ; the Church of Corinth flourishes once 
more, and the voice of the Apostles is heard within her walls. 
I behold myself transported to those glorious lands, where 
amid sacred ruins I raise together the monuments and the 
spirit of the past. I visit the Areopagus where St. Paul 
announced to the saires of the world ' the unknown God.' 
But the profane follows the sacred, and I disdain not to descend 
to the Piraeus, where Socrates formed the plan of his republic. 
I shall not forget thee, blessed Patmos, isle consecrated by 
the visions of the beloved disciple ! There will I kiss that 
earth which bore the traces of St. John's, feet ; and like him 
perchance I shall see heaven opened, and behold the East and 
West, so long divided, once more united, and Asia, after her 
long night, awake to the light of day !" 

This letter, written to the then young Bossuet (his friend 
in the beginning of life, but antagonist at the end), contained 
a dream never destined to realization. The Bishop of Sarlat 
appeared to consent, but turned the thoughts of his nephew 
to another channel by indirect means. Fenelon, recalled to 



24: WORKS OF FEJNELON. 

Paris by the archbishop, M. de Ilarlay, was nominated, despite 
his youth, Superior of the new converts to Catholicism, whose 
number had rapidly increased through the persecutions of 
Louis the Fourteenth. Fenelon was then only twenty-seven 
years of age. The austerity of his habits, the intensity of his 
faith, the power of his oratory, and the stern upright bent of 
his mind, already bestowed upon him the authority o*" age. 
Living in the Abbey of Saint-Germain des Pres (the home of 
his uncle, the Marquis Antoine de Fenelon, who had retired to 
the shade of the cloister) ; aided by the experience of the Su- 
perior of St. Sulpice, M. Tronson ; encouraged by Bossuet, his 
rival and friend ; holding intercourse with the rigid Duke de 
Beauvilliers, and the most austere intimates of Louis the Four- 
teenth ; his society sought by the Archbishop of Paris, who 
beheld in this young ecclesiastic an ornament to his diocese ; — 
Fenelon governed the order committed to him with prema- 
ture and consummate wisdom. Beneath the auspices of M. de 
Ilarlay, he might rapidly have aspired to the highest dignities 
of the Church ; but he rather preferred the then sterile friend- 
ship of Bossuet, the pursuits of science, and the acquirement 
of theological eloquence. Instead of cultivating the favor of 
M. de Ilarlay, he became the disciple of Bossuet, estimating 
fame beyond preferment. M. de Harlay became jealous of 
Bossuet, and resented this negligence on the part of the young 
priest. " Monsieur l'Abbe," said he to him one day, after com 
plaining of the little desire exhibited by Fenelon to please him, 
" you wish to be forgotten, and you shall be so I" 

In truth, Fenelon was passed over in the distribution of 
Church preferment. His uncle, the Bishop of Sarlat, was 
compelled, in order to support his nephew in Paris, to bestow 
upon him the small living of Carenac, which belonged to his 
own diocese. A revenue of 3000 francs, which barely sufficed 
for the necessities of an ascetic life, constituted the sole income 
possessed by Fenelon until he had reached the age of forty- 
two. He passed some weeks in this rural priory, and distrib- 
uted to the surrounding poor all that he could retrench from 
his own moderate expenses. He there composed verses which 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMAKTINE. 25 

prove that the contemplation of nature increased his veneration 
for that Mighty Creator whose presence filled his solitude. Like 
many great spirits of all ages, — Solon, Caesar, Cicero, Mon- 
tesquieu, J. J. Rousseau, Chateaubriand, — he sang before he 
thought. In man, the music of numbers is the forerunner of 
eloquence, as the emotions of the heart ever precede the exer- 
cise of the reasoning faculties. Fenelon's verses have all the 
tenderness and grace of youth, but do not display that vigor 
of a truly poetic soul which surmounts, at the first step, all the 
difficulties of metrical composition, and creates, with the same 
effort, sentiment, word, and verse. He felt this himself, and 
after one or two attempts, resigned poetry to Racine, the Vir- 
gil of France. He next essayed prose, which he found a less 
laborious, less perfect, but a more complaisant instrument of 
thought, and did not cease to be the greatest poetical genius 
of his age. 

Fenelon once more returned to Paris, and resumed for ten 
years the direction of the establishment which had been com- 
mitted to his care, nourishing and ripening in the shade, talents 
and virtues which were soon to be unveiled. He prepared 
himself by -.peaking and writing upon sacred subjects, and 
composed for the Duchess of Beauvilliers, the mother of a 
young and numerous family, a treatise upon the education of 
daughters. This work is far superior to the " Emile" of J. J. 
Rousseau : it displays no Utopian dream, but points out a 
practical and reasonable mode of education, suited to the 
epoch at which Fenelon wrote. We see at once that the au- 
thor writes not for fame, but for the true benefit of his fellow- 
beings. The labors and duties of his profession were lightened 
by a correspondence full of pious ardor and chastened happi- 
ness, which he carried on with his most intimate friends, of 
whom he now possessed an extensive circle ; but the dearest 
and most constant of all was the young Abbe de Langeron, 
whose memory is well worthy of being associated with that of 
Fenelon. Bossuet was more than a friend : he was a preceptor 
also ; but a master beloved as much as he was admired. This 
great man, then in his full vigor, and endowed with the an- 
Vol. 1.— 2 



26 WORKS OF FENELON. 

thority which had increased with years, possessed at Germigny, 
near Paris, a country house, where he enjoyed ease and relax- 
ation from his labors. 

Fen el on, the Abbe Floury, the Abbe Langeron, and other 
chosen luminaries of the Church and of sacred literature, were 
admitted to the retreat of Bossuet. They there shared his se- 
vere leisure, listened in confidence to his sermons, his funeral 
orations, and his polemic discourses. They submitted to him 
their own essays, and enriched their minds by familiar inter- 
course with that exalted spirit, who was more sublime in pri- 
vate than in his pulpit, simply because he was more natural. 
The association of such intellects ripened the ideas, enlarged 
the views, polished the style, and cemented the affections. As 
the river of knowledge had flowed through ancient Rome, so 
had a flood of genius, philosophy, and piety rolled into Ger- 
migny, with this difference, that the latter was superior, both 
in its men and their objects. Thus passed the happiest years 
of the life of Fenelon, in the enjoyments of friendship and re- 
tirement. In this retreat, his fame attracted neither the ap- 
plause nor the envy of the world. His own renown had merged 
in the reputation of Bossuet, and his personal ambition in the 
friendship of these illustrious men. His genius became the 
sweeter to himself from being displayed only in private. How 
little did Fenelon imagine that the thunderbolt was soon to 
Durst on him from this cherished banqueting hall, where hith- 
erto he had breathed only peace, retirement, and happiness ! 

Religious warfare had scarcely been quelled in France, when 
the revocation of the Edict of Nantes struck a fatal blow at 
liberty of conscience, by violating the treaty between opposing 
creeds, solemnly accorded by Henry the Fourth. Three hun- 
dred thousand families were expelled, deprived of their chil- 
dren, and their property confiscated. Millions of others, in the 
Protestant provinces, were placed under constraint. Some 
were persuaded, others compelled by force, to renounce the 
religion of their fathers, and adopt that of the State. Bossuet 
approved of these internal crusades against the Reformation. 
In his eyes the end sanctified the means. Missionaries, sup- 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTLNE. 27 

ported by troops and officers of the law, scoured the provinces, 
compelling faith, converting the weak, strengthening the doubt- 
ful, and punishing the obstinate. That part of the kingdom 
where Protestantism had taken the deepest root, presented only 
the appearance of a vast battle-field after the victory, where 
ambulatory ecclesiastics, armed with the tongue and the 
sword, brought back all by zeal, by seduction, or by terror, 
into unity of faith. This was the work of Louis the Four- 
teenth, now become old and fanatical. He thought to gain 
heaven himself, by offering to the Church this vast spoil of 
souls, crushed and terrified under his authority. Bossuet was 
the private counsellor of this government, so absolute in the 
disposal of consciences. Uniting in himself the double char- 
acter of a controversial priest and a statesman, he served with 
his whole heart and soul the Church for the king, and the 
king for the Church. His vast ambition, which he concealed 
from himself beneath the cloak of pious zeal, induced him to 
maintain an equal balance between the court of Rome and the 
pride of Louis the Fourteenth ; swaying skilfully the alternate 
favor of these two powers, who mutually served while they 
feared each other. In the name of the king he reduced Prot- 
estant France to Catholicism ; but claimed in return from this 
French Catholicism, some temporal advantages and immunities 
for the king, almost verging upon the point of schism. A 
zealous, yet haughty servant, Bossuet commanded Rome by his 
services to the Church, Versailles by his ascendency at Rome, 
and the world by the sublimity of his genius. Without the 
title, he possessed all the patriarchal power in France. The 
Court feared while it respected him. Madame de Maintenon, 
though forbearing to gratify the ambition of Bossuet (who 
aspired to the Archbishopric of Paris and the Cardinal's hat, 
but who, if raised to such an exalted position, might become 
too absolute, and possibly unmanageable), guided, in him, the 
oracle of the Church and the keeper of the king's conscience. 
She who had been torn from her cradle by the persecutions of 
the reformed faith (which her family professed), sought now, 
with all her influence, to imbue Louis with the same cruel spirit 



28 WOKKS OF FENELOX. 

of intolerance. The authority of Heaven and that of the king 
united, sanctified, in her estimation and in the opinion of the 
Court, any severities used for the conversion of the multitude. 
A persecution, the horrors of which two centuries have been 
powerless to efface from the memory of the provinces, ravaged 
a portion of Languedoc and Vivarais. This excess of cruelty 
called aloud for vengeance. The cry of their victims became 
embarrassing to the Court, who sought to silence them, not 
by restoring to the sufferers liberty of conscience, but by be- 
stowing upon them more insinuating and humane ministers. 

Bossuet cast his eyes upon Fenelon. No man was so capa- 
ble of reassuring the terror-stricken people, of making the 
yoke imposed upon them appear light and easy, and of restor- 
ing amnesty of conscience in the provinces where persecution 
and preaching had so discreditably contended. At the first 
presentation of Fenelon to Louis the Fourteenth, by Bossuet, 
the sole favor he demanded of the king was, to disarm reli- 
gion of all coercive power; to release Protestants from the 
terrors which petrified their souls, and to allow them once 
more to breathe ; to banish troops from the provinces he was 
about to visit ; and to let persuasion, charity, and mercy alone 
operate upon the minds he desired rather to enlighten than to 
subdue. Louis, who looked only to the end, cared little for 
the means that were adopted. He was charmed with the 
grace, modesty, and eloquence of the young ecclesiastic, and 
at once bestowed upon him the mission of Poitou. In this 
work Fenelon was aided by his two friends, the Abbe de 
Langeron and the Abbe Fleury, both of whom were animated 
by his own spirit. His presence, his mildness, and his preach 
ing in the country, soothed turbulent spirits, and gained nu- 
merous recantations. He allowed neither the king nor Bos- 
suet to credit the sincerity of the forced abjurations which had 
preceded his ministry, and which had imposed a political faith 
upon these provinces. In his correspondence with the Court 
he courageously upheld the right and dignity of conviction. 
When accused by the advocates of persecution, of a lenity 
which allowed freedom of belief to all, Fenelon wrote thus tc 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 29 

Bossuet: "If they desire the people to abjure Christianity 
and to adopt the Koran, they need but to send them a troop 
of dragoons." Such language addressed to Bossuet himself 
by a young minister aspiring to the dignities of his order, 
proved that he was at least two centuries in advance of his 
time. 

" Continue," wrote he again to the king's ministers, " to 
supply corn ; you cannot adopt a more persuasive controversy. 
The people are only to be gained through conviction. Let 
them find as much advantage in remaining at home as peril in 
leaving the kingdom." Nevertheless, we discover with regret 
at a later period, in Fenelon's letters to Bossuet, some traces 
of weak concession to the merciless zeal of the pontiff, and a 
timid acquiescence in forcing people to heaven through the 
royal authority. It must be remembered, that no man escapes 
entirely from the prevailing opinions of his time ; least of all 
one Avho belongs to a body which trains its members in the 
sentiments and passions of a»n epoch. 

Upon his return from Poitou, Fenelon was recommended to 
Louis the Fourteenth, by the Duke de Beauvilliers, and Mad- 
ame de Maintenon, as an eligible preceptor for the Duke of 
•Burgundy, the king's grandson. The Duke de Beauvilliers 
held the office of governor to the youthful heir to the throne. 
The choice reflected equal honor upon the king, the governor, 
and Madame de Maintenon. Fenelon seemed predestined by 
nature for this duty. His mind was essentially royal, and it 
needed but to transfuse his own spirit into that of the child 
born to a throne, to render him an accomplished monarch and 
the pastor of his people in the most ancient acceptation of the 
title. Fl nelon never courted this elevation. Fortune herself 
had found him in the twilight where he sought concealment. 
His associates rejoiced for him, but mourned for themselves ; 
the Court was about to deprive them of his society. When 
Bossuet heard of this appointment, respecting which he had 
certainly been consulted, he expressed his pleasure in a short 
letter to Madame de Montmorency-Laval, the cousin and friend 
i of Fenelon. 



30 WORKS OF FENELON. 

" Yesterday, Madame," he wrote, " I was occupied with the 
cares of Church and State. To-day I have leisure to think of 
your happiness, in which I warmly participate. Your fathei 
(the Marquis Antoine de Fenelon), my kind and good friend, 
is with me in spirit. My imagination pictures his feelings 
upon this occasion — could he witness the public exaltation of 
a merit which sought so carefully to conceal itself. Do not 
think, Madame, that we lose our friend. You can still enjoy 
his intercourse, and I, though forced by my duties to quit 
Paris, can sometimes return and embrace him." 

In this note the whole character of the man is displayed. 
The joy, untainted with envy, of a master who beholds his 
own triumph in that of his pupil ; the memory of an old 
friendship with the head of the family which refills his heart 
and would open the tomb to congratulate the dead ; and the 
manly tenderness of a father who in his old age sometimes 
needs the presence of his son. Bossuet's heart was, at times, 
hardened by controversy and inflated by pontifical authority, 
but naturally it was tender. Devoid of this sensibility, he 
would have been a mere rhetorician, but how could he have 
possessed true eloquence ? whence would have proceeded those 
accents which, penetrating the souls of men, drew from them 
cries and tears ? 

Fenelon's other friend, the Abbe Tronson, Director of St. 
Sulpice, and his spiritual adviser, addressed him in a long con- 
gratulatory letter, anxious and affectionate, one in which joy 
and fear were mingled. " The portals of earthly grandeur are 
opened to you," said this holy man, " but beware lest they shut 
out the more solid greatness of heaven. Your friends, doubt- 
less, felicitate you with the assurance of this post having been 
bestowed unsought, and this is truly a source of consolation ; 
but do not plume yourself too highly upon it, we have often 
more to do with our own elevation than we like to believe. 
Unknown to ourselves we assist in removing obstacles. We 
do not absolutely court those who can serve us, but we wil- 
lingly display ourselves to them in the most favorable point of 
view. It is to these natural revealings, in which we sutler our 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTLNE. 31 

merit to appear, that may be attributed the commencement of 
promotion. Thus no man can say he has not contributed to 
elevate himself." 

It is easy to be seen, that the scrupulous director of the 
conscience knew the secrets of his disciple's heart, and warned 
him against an ambition, created by the gift and desire of pleas- 
ing, which formed at once the charm and danger of Fenelon. 

The first thoughts of Fenelon upon attaining his new hon- 
ors, were directed to friendship. He appointed the Abbe 
Fleury, and the Abbe de Beaumont (his nephew), sub-precep- 
tors to the young prince ; and to the Abbe de Langeron he 
assigned the office of reader. Thus he concentrated all his 
affections in his employment, and multiplied around his pupil 
the same spirit under different names. The Duke de Beau- 
villiers, his first patron, and on whom the management of the 
young prince depended, left his uncontrolled education to Fene- 
lon, and retained merely the title of his appointment. Equally 
delicate and important were the duties of that office which 
comprised in the destiny of this child, confided to Fenelon, the 
future fate of a nation. 

It is difficult at this remote period, when the overthrow of 
thrones and manners have still further increased the distance, 
to comprehend thoroughly the court of Louis the Fourteenth. 
It represented a sort of Christian monarchy of Olympus, in 
which the king was the Jupiter, around whom revolved infe- 
rior gods and goddesses, deified by the adulation of the great 
and the superstition of the ignorant. Their virtues and their 
vices were alike extravagantly displayed with an audacious su- 
periority that seemed to place between the people and the 
throne, the difference exhibited in the moral system of the gods 
as opposed to the moral system of men. Louis the Fourteenth 
was looked upon as an exception to every thing, even to hu- 
manity itself. This king was not judged like other sublunary 
beings ; he seemed to have a conscience, a virtue, a God, apart 
from the rest of mortals. It was a unique period in the history 
of the greatness of courts, the intoxication of courtiers, and 
the prostration of the people. 



6X WORKS OF FENELON. 

The lustre of the throne proceeded less from the sovereign 
who reigned, than from the events which that reign brought 
forth. Complete and absolute sovereignty was ripe at this 
epoch, and Louis had but to gather the fruit. Of two great 
ministers, Richelieu and Mazarin, the former had aided despot- 
ism by abating the power of the nobles ; the latter had ob- 
tained peace and obedience by lightening the yoke of the 
oppressed people, by winning the parliaments, by purifying 
factions, by seducing the Court, by corrupting princes, and by 
placing, through the power of his smooth Muchiuvelism, France, 
vanquished, bought, pardoned, and wearied, within the hands 
of a child. The energetic and dominant nature of the Gaul 
displayed by Richelieu, the Greek and Italian finesse of Maza- 
rin, seemed to have been created in concert for the purpose of 
moulding the kingdom to servitude and tranquillity. 

The entire reign of Louis the Fourteenth is contained in the 
lives of these two men : the one the terror, the other the at- 
traction of royalty. Richelieu has been fully appreciated, and, 
A may be, somewhat too highly lauded ; but history has not 
yet accorded to Mazarin his just meed. He was the Machia- 
vel, unspotted with crime, of the French monarchy. After his 
death, Louis the Fourteenth had neither to struggle for power 
nor respect ; he was only called upon to reign. 

Owing to these two antecedents, he was not required to be 
a great man in order to become a great king. 

It was sufficient to possess an exalted heart with an upright 
mind, and both dwelt in Louis. His intellect was enlightened, 
not by genius, but by good sense. His heart was elevated, not 
by grandeur of soul, but by pride. Mazarin had taught him 
to despise men, and to believe in the divine character of his 
power. He did so believe, and therein lay his strength. The 
idolatry he bore towards himself served as an example for that 
incense which he expected to breathe, and commanded in hi? 
Court. He had well learnt from his first minister, the most 
penetrating of statesmen, to discern the true value of men. To 
reign well, for Louis the Fourteenth, was but to be served 
well. He seldom made a mistake in his selections for office. 



33 

His kingdom represented nothing more than his house, the 
ministers his domestics, the State his family ; in fact, the 
government was but a reflection of his own individual 
character. 

This character, embellished upon the surface by a remnant 
of the chivalry of the race of Valois, which adorned egotism 
in the monarch and servility in his Court, possessed nothing 
great beyond its personality. He thought only of himself; he 
was born a master, he well understood the art of command, he 
was polished in manners, steady in all political relations, 
faithful to those who served him, capable of appreciating 
merit, and desirous of absorbing in what he considered his 
own glory, the fame of all who were renowned either for 
great virtue or great talent. Troubles of long continuauce 
were appeased, civil wars extinguished, peace established, and 
literature revived : nature, ever more productive alter storms, 
assigned to this reign the date of French genius in literature 
and art. Louis, like a fortunate man, and one worthy of his 
fate, seized the advantages of his time, which he stimulated 
and encouraged by his munificence and condescension. He 
claimed every rising genius as a new subject. 

With regard to religion, he professed two faiths, — the one 
exclusively political, which consisted in fulfilling literally, by 
force if necessary, his part of most Christian king, crowned 
son and lictor of the Church ; the other was altogether pri- 
vate, an inheritance from his mother, brought from $pain, — 
scrupulous in conscience, literal in practice, and superstitious 
in creed. Such a piety as this, up to advanced age, exer- 
cised but little influence over his conduct ; it had no true ele- 
vation, no independence of soul, no sublime view of the 
Creator. It was more that of a slave who trembles, than of a 
king who prays. He accommodated it to all his inclinations, 
and profaned it by his many weaknesses. Devoted to love 
more by the senses than the intellect, his intrigues were nu 
merous ; nevertheless, they partook but little of a libertine 
character. A certain sincerity of admiration, and constancy 
cf regard, invested them with comparative purity. It was less 

2* 



34 WORKS OF FEtfELON. 

vice than passion ; but such an oriental passion resembled 
more the attachment of a sultan to his favorite, than the devo- 
tion of a lover to his idol. He flattered, he adored, he in- 
sisted upon the Court, the army, and the people, worshipping 
the object of his fancy, which he soon crushed to exalt another. 
Thus he lived, environing his wife with his mistresses, and 
never thinking himself sufficiently adored unless his weaknesses 
were included in the worship. At length came maturity, and, 
remorse succeeded to voluptuousness. He sought to reconcile 
the necessity of a favorite with the demands of devotion. A 
woman formed expressly by nature and art to fill such a posi- 
tion, attracted his regard ; he cultivated her society, but when 
he sought to conquer, found he could do so only by marrying 
her. This woman was Madame de Maintenon. 

At the period when Fenelon was summoned to the Court, 
Madame de Maintenon had reigned for several years. Her 
destiny was less the result of a fortunate chance, than of an 
ably-studied calculation. Thus crafty though virtuous women 
make respect an auxiliary of intrigue, and adopt this eminent 
example as the saint and patron of ambition. Men do not 
sympathize with her, as passion held no sway in her capitula- 
tion with the king. If she negotiated for a long time, it was 
but to sell herself at the highest price to a man whom she had 
never loved. 

Descended from a family persecuted and ruined for their 
attachment to Protestantism, brought as a child from the 
colonies by a relation without a home, increasing with yeara 
in all those charms which expose a young girl so early to 
temptation, inspiring those who beheld her with an admiration 
increased by her misfortunes, educated amid the usages of an 
equivocal society, living in domestic familiarity with the most 
celebrated courtezan of the time, Ninon de l'Enclos, marrying 
finally the old, infirm, and burlesque poet, Scarron, her chaste 
and melancholy beauty contrasting with the age and ill-temper 
of her husband, her poverty so nobly endured, her strict and 
irreproachable conduct amid surrounding license and seduc- 
tions, the severe graces of her mind cultivated in the shade, a 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 35 

cheerful yet sincere piety, which formed at once the pafeguard 
of her youth and the foundation of that respect which the 
world entertained for her ; — all these combining cause? 
attracted towards her the attention of those who came frocc 
the Court to relax themselves at the house of the Diogenes of 
the day. Having soon become the widow of Scarron, during 
the period of mourning she concealed herself in a convent 
from the injurious remarks of the world. Compelled to sup- 
plicate for the small pension to which she was entitled, as sur- 
viving her husband, she approached the Court, where she 
formed various connections, when a fortunate opportunity 
occurred. A sure and devoted confidante was required, to 
whom could be confided the Duke du Maine, the invalid child 
of Madame de Montespan. Upon the presentation of the 
young widow to the favorite, the latter became fascinated at 
once, and Madame de Maintenon received the young prince 
from the hands of the king and his mistress. She conducted 
him to the baths of the Pyrenees, in order to re-establish his 
health, and commence his education. The correspondence 
she was obliged to carry on from thence with Madame de 
Montespan and the king, dissipated any prejudice Louis had 
formed against her. She gained his confidence and won his 
interest. No woman of her time, or perhaps of any other, wrote 
in a style so simple, varied, and forcible : her pen displayed 
the solidity of her judgment, and the capability of her mind. 
Good sense, clearness, and force were her muses ; these were 
the qualities which accorded well with the rigid and precise 
spirit of Louis the Fourteenth, and were at the same time those 
which the favorite least dreaded in a confidante. The superi- 
ority of her own imagination, the brightness of her sallies, her 
strength of passion, the sparkling flow of her conversation, 
secured her from all rivalry. She possessed genius and the 
arts of seduction, and looked without alarm upon a simple 
esteem. 

It was beneath the mask of this modest temperament and 
this humble assumption of the part of confidante, that the 
widow insinuated herself more and more into the friendship of 



36 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the favorite and the intimacy of the king. This accordance 
with a liaison which scandalized all Europe, demanded conces- 
sions from the virtue of the confidante which were scarcely 
compatible with the rigor of her piety. But we have already 
said that the king was an exception to the recognized rules of 
morality. The new friend of Madame de Montespan and of 
the monarch satisfied her conscience by blaming, in gentle 
words, a guilty intercourse which she sanctioned by her actions. 
Her complaisance never extended absolutely to approbation or 
connivance, and in the interviews which her charge and her 
residence in the house of the favorite rendered frequent with 
the sovereign, she reproached him for his weakness, and urged 
him to repentance. Her ripened beauty, preserved in all its 
freshness by the coldness of her temperament, had at least as 
much effect in the king's conversion as the sternness of her 
language. When at length liberated by the death of the 
queen, he asked himself if a calm, sincere, and virtuous 
attachment to a woman at the same time attractive and sensi- 
ble, would not offer to his mind and his senses a felicity as 
superior as it would exceed in virtue the voluptuous love of 
his unreformed years. The charm augmented with every 
interview, and the jealousy and angry reproaches of Madame 
de Montespan served only to increase it. She accused the 
friend whom she had raised from so low a condition, of ingrat 
itude and domestic treachery, and declared she had but availed 
herself of her intimacy to suborn the heart of the king by 
pious seductions, and to gain the place of Esther in the royal 
bed, from whence she should be driven with opprobrium and 
infamy. 

The predictions of despairing love were fulfilled ; the accu- 
sation of ingratitude proved only too just. Before many years 
had elapsed, Madame de Montespan was disgraced, and drag- 
ged out her sorrowing existence in exile, while the widow of 
Scarron became queen. Still, the dignity of the throne and 
the pride of the monarch prevailed sufficiently over his love, 
to prevent the public announcement of his slavery to this new 
wife. He was contented to satisfy the demands of the Church 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 37 

by obtaining the benediction of the Archbishop of Paris on 
the night of his marriage, in presence of a few trusty courtiers. 
The ceremony was secret, but the connection public. Madame 
de Maintenon occupied in the people's eyes, the equivocal 
position of the king's revered favorite. The royal family, the 
court, the ministers, the clergy, the sovereign himself, all 
became subservient to her influence. Favorite, wife, arbitress 
of the Church, oracle of the council, she was at the same time 
the Richelieu and the Mazarin of the king's old age. Her 
clever humility bowed in outward appearance to the royal 
authority, and while her will became the king's law, she ever 
induced him to draw forth her opinions as if by compulsion. 
It was as if a monarch had espoused his prime minister. 

Piety, which had succeeded to love, formed the lasting bond 
of this union. The Court, inspired by the example of a 
religious woman, — governed by a master alarmed for his salva- 
tion, — domineered over by such stern bishops as Bossuet, — 
reprimanded by Confessors, sometimes terrible as Letellier, at 
others, gentle as Lachaise,— agitated by opposing factions, — 
divided between ambition and mysticism, — resembled more a 
synod than a government. Versailles at that period recalls to 
mind the palace of the Blacquernal at Byzantium, under the 
sway of the Greek rulers of the Lower Empire ; where meta- 
physical quarrels distracted the Court and the people, and left 
Constantinople open to the advance of destruction and the 
legions of her conquerors. 

The king had a son who bore the title of Monseigneur. 
This prince, who had been educated by Bossuet and Montau- 
sier, was gifted by nature with courage and intelligence ; but 
the Eastern jealousy of Louis withdrew him from the camp the 
moment he displayed ability, and banished him to Meudon, 
where he resided, with a single companion, almost in a state 
of indigence. The son ultimately consented to occupy this 
obscure position in order to remove from Louis the insupport- 
able presence of an heir to the throne. The king trembled 
less before the shadow of death, than before the knowledge 
that one day he must cease to reign. The Duke of Burgundy, 



66 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the guidance of whose studies had been confided to Fenelon, 
was the son of Monseigneur, and grandson of the king, who, 
following the custom of grandfathers, preferred this child to 
his own son. His extreme youth removed all unpleasant feel- 
ings, as the great disparity of years placed a wide distance 
between the monarch's reign and that of this youthful suc- 
cessor. 

Some of the courtiers attached themselves to these different 
branches of the royal family. The greater number surrounded 
the king, and all paid homage to Madame de Maintenon. 

Such was the Court of France when Fenelon entered upon 
his functions as preceptor to the Duke of Burgundy. 

The disposition of this child inspired more fear than hope. 
" He was terrible from his birth," said St. Simon, the untaught 
but impressive Tacitus of the end of this reign. " In his earli- 
est years he caused those about him to tremble ; unfeeling, 
displaying the most violent passion, which extended towards 
inanimate objects, incapable of bearing the slightest contradic- 
tion, even from the hours or the elements, without giving way 
to a whirlwind of rage sufficient to break all the blood-vessels 
in his body — I speak of what I have often witnessed : opin- 
ionated to excess ; absorbed in the pursuits of pleasure, fond of 
good living, following the chase with furious impetuosity, 
enjoying music with a sort of delirium, madly attached to 
play, but unable to bear loss, and when defeated, becoming 
positively dangerous; in fact, abandoned to all the evil pas- 
sions, and transported by every corrupting pleasure ; often 
savage, naturally cruel; bitter in raillery, ridiculing with a 
remorseless power, regarding all men (irrespective of merit), 
from his high position, but as atoms with whom he could have 
no affinity. Wit and powers of penetration shone through all 
he did or said, even in his paroxysms of extreme violence. 
His repartees were marvellous, his replies always just and 
profound. He but glanced superficially at the most abstruse 
points of learning ; the extent and vivacity of his powers were 
so varied that they prevented his fixing upon any distinct 
branch of knowledge, and almost rendered him incapable of 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LA2IAKTINE. 39 

study. From this abyss came forth a prince," &c. This 
prince was the child confided to Fenelon to remodel. 

The king, Madame de Maintenon, and the Duke de Beau- 
villier had been admirably guided, either by chance or discern- 
ment, in the selection of such a master for such a disciple. 
Fenelon had been endowed by nature with the two attributes 
most requisite in those who teach — the power of command 
and the gift of pleasing. Dignity and fascination emanated 
from his whole being, — nature had traced in his lineaments 
the beauty of his soul. His countenance expressed his genius 
even in moments of silence. The pencil, the chisel, and the 
pen of his cotemporaries, some of whom were his enemies, all 
agree in their delineation of Fenelon. D'Aguesseau and St. 
Simon have been his Yandyck and his Rubens. He lives, he 
speaks, and enchants in their hands. 

His figure was tall, elegant, and flexible in its proportions 
as that of Cicero. Nobility and modesty reigned in his air 
and governed his motions ; the delicacy and paleness of his 
features added to their perfection. He borrowed none of his 
beauty from the carnation, owed none of it to color ; it con- 
sisted entirely in the purity and grace of outline, and was 
altogether of a moral and intellectual cast. In moulding his 
expression, nature had employed but little physical material. 
We feel while contemplating this countenance, that the rare 
and delicate elements of which it was composed, afforded no 
home to the more brutal and sensual passions. They were 
shaped and moulded only to display a quick intelligence, and 
to render the soul visible. His forehead was lofty, oval, 
rounded in the centre, depressed and throbbing towards the 
temples; surmounted by fine hair of an undecided color, 
which the involuntary breath of inspiration agitated like a 
gentle wind, as it curled around the cap that covered the top 
of his head. His eyes, of a liquid transparency, received, like 
water, the various reflections of light and shadow-, thought and 
impression. It was said that their color reflected the texture 
of his mind. Eyebrows arched, round, and delicate, relieved 
them ; long, veined, and transparent lids covered and unveiled 



4:0 WORKS OF FENELON. 

them alternately with a rapid movement. His aquiline nose 
was marked by a slight prominence, which gave energy cf 
expression to a profile more Greek than Roman. His mouth, 
the lips of which were partly unclosed, like those of a man 
who breathes from an open heart, had an expression, wavering 
between melancholy and playfulness, which revealed the free- 
dom of a spirit controlled by the gravity of the thoughts. It 
seemed to incline equally to prayer or to smiles, and breathed 
at the same time of heaven and earth. Eloquence or familiar 
conversation flowed spontaneously from every fold ; the cheeks 
were depressed, but unwrinkled, save at the two corners of the 
mouth, where benevolence had indented lines expressive of 
habitual graciousness. His chin, firm and somewhat promi 
nent, gave a manly solidity to a countenance otherwise ap- 
proaching to the feminine. His voice corresponded, in its 
sweet, grave, and winning resonance, with all the harmonious 
traits of his countenance. The tone conveyed as much as the 
words, and moved the listeners before the meaning was con- 
veyed to them. 

" This exterior," continues d'Aguesseau, " was rendered 
more imposing by a lustre of distinction which spread around 
his person, and by an indescribable expression, at once sublime 
and simple, which impressed upon his character and his 
features an almost prophetic air. Without effort he gave a 
new turn to all his conceptions, which made his hearers fancy 
that inspiration had rendered him master of every science, 
and that instead of acquiring he had invented them. He was 
always new, ever original, imitating none, and himself inimita- 
ble. The theatre in which he performed was not too great for 
so great an actor ; he held no place there but that assigned to 
him by the public, and his position was worthy of his genius." 

To these endowments of nature, Fenelon added all those 
which are bestowed by a natural power of pleasing, without an 
effort to beguile or flatter. The desire of being loved as he 
himself loved, was his sole art of flattery and seduction ; but 
in this also lay all his power. " This power," said his friends, 
" became an irresistible fascination, in proportion as it wa? 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMAETINE. 41 

involuntary." This ardent inclination to please was no effort 
of his mind, it was simply his good fortune. Drawn toward? 
all by his love, he drew all in turn to himself. Benevolence 
was so completely his essence, that in breathing he imparted it 
to others. The universal regard which he met with, was but 
the rebound of that affection he displayed towards his fellow- 
creatures. This desire to please was no artifice ; it was a 
spontaneous emotion. He did not, like the ambitious, exert it 
only where interest beckoned, towards those who by their 
friendship could aid his advancement or his schemes ; it ex- 
tended to all, without other distinction than deference to the 
great and condescension to the humble. Equally anxious, said 
St. Simon, to delight his superiors, his equals, and his inferiors, 
in this desire of reciprocal love he recognized no distinctions of 
great and small, high or low; he sought only to conquer 
hearts with his own ; he neglected none, and noticed even the 
humblest domestics of the palace : nevertheless, this prodigality 
of regard had nothing vulgar or uniform in its expression 
which might have vulgarized or deteriorated its value. It was 
marked, distinctive, and proportioned, not in tenderness, but in 
familiarity of manner, according to the rank, the worth, and 
the degree of the individual. To some respectfully affection* 
ate, to others displaying ardent friendship ; giving a smile 
here, and a word there ; — a kindly glance, a natural benevo- 
lence, spontaneously governed all his motions : his guide was 
sentiment, not form. A faultless tact (that instinct of the 
mind) involuntarily prevented his evincing too much consider- 
ation for one person, or too little for another. The measure 
bestowed on each was correctly proportioned. To all other 
charms, he joined a marvellous grace, — a grace the gift of 
nature, and to which good taste was added by gentle birth. 
Born within the ranks of the aristocracy, educated amid the 
distinguished, accustomed from infancy to move in a sphere 
above the crowd, his manners bore that undeniable stamp of 
superiority which raises by its condescension, and flatters by 
its love. His politeness never seemed an attention to all, but 
a peculiar notice bestowed on each ; it imparted its own char 



4:2 WORKS OF FENELON. 

acter to his genius. He never sought to dazzle by display 
those who might have felt obscured or humiliated under the 
ascendency of his talents. He suited his discourse to the 
capacity of his associates, equalling always, but never trying to 
surpass them. The conversation which forms the true elo- 
quence of friendship was supereminently his. Ever adapted 
to the man, the hour, and the subject, it was grave, flexible, 
luminous, sublime, or playful, but always noble and instructive. 
In his most unstudied flights there was something sweet, kind, 
and winning, which the most humble comprehended, and 
which compelled them to pardon his superiority. None, con- 
tinues St. Simon (who dreaded his genius), could leave, or 
deprive themselves of the charm of his society, without wish- 
ing to return to it again. His conversation left that impres- 
sion on the soul which his voice left on the ear, and his 
features on the eyes, — a new, powerful, and indelible stamp, 
which could never be effaced, either from the mind, the senses, 
or the heart. Some men have been greater ; none have been 
more adapted to humanity; and none have swayed more by 
the power of the affections. 

Such was Fenelon, when he appeared at Court, in his forty- 
second year. He speedily obtained dominion over all except 
only the envious, who could not endure superiority, and the 
king, who, in opposition to genius, possessed only the gift of 
plain common sense, and could not endure that any other than 
himself should be an object of general regard. Madame de 
Maintenon, a woman of truly superior discernment wherever 
ambition did not obscure her faculties, recognized at once in 
Fenelon the dominating mind of this secondary Court which 
surrounded the heir to the throne. His gentle, pure, and 
sincere piety, prevented any danger from the universal influ 
ence he exercised. She drew him into intimacy, and even 
wished to render him the confidant of her thoughts, in chocs 
ing him for her spiritual director. Such a confidence would 
have rendered the will of Fenelon the arbiter of the will of 
Madame de Maintenon, who herself ruled the disposition of 
the king. The oratory of a female would have become the 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 43 

oracle of an age. It is believed that the comparative youth of 
Fenelon, and the instinctive repugnance of the monarch to 
sucli an alarming superiority, deterred her from the fulfilment 
of tins intention. She confided her conscience to another, but 
stiil bestowed all her favors upon Fenelon. No mind in the 
Court so quickly understood, admired, and loved him. With 
the exception of Bossuet, all connected with the pious inter- 
course of Louis the Fourteenth and Madame de Maintenon, 
were persons of middling capacity. The genius of Fenelon 
soared far above this circle ; but we have already said that 
no man could so well adapt himself to those whom he could 
never raise to his own height. The greatest triumph of his 
genius consisted in forgetting itself. 

He confined himself, under the patronage of the Duke de 
Beauvillier, and the intimacy of the Duke de Chevreuse, both 
rather his friends than his superiors, to the delicate functions 
of his charge : the recital of those endeavors and successes by 
which the master achieved the transformation of his pupil, 
belong rather to the studies of philosophy than the records of 
history. The first process adopted by Fenelon was the influ- 
ence of his own character. He succeeded in persuading, 
because he had succeeded in making himself loved ; and he 
became loved, from having begun by bestowing love himself. 
In a few years he had remodelled this rude nature, at first 
sterile and unproductive, but afterwards ductile and fruitful, 
into the Germanicus of France. This Germanicus, like he of 
Rome, can only be exhibited to the world for a moment ; we 
shall meet him again on the borders of the grave. 

It was in the midst of the studious leisure of this royal edu- 
cation, which forced upon Fenelon' s mind the contemplation 
of the philosophy of societies, that he secretly composed, in a 
poetical form, his moral and political code of government. 
We speak of " Telemachus," which perpetuates the genius of 
Fenelon to all posterity. If he had merely been the lettered 
and elegant courtier of Madame de Maintenon's private circle, 
the exemplary and eloquent pontiff of Cambray, the tutor of 
a prince, carried off from his regal inheritance while yet under 



44 WORKS OF FENELON. 

age, his name would already have been forgotten. But he has 
moulded his soul and genius into an imperishable poem. His 
mind is his immortal monument, and lives in this work. 

The exact period and method adopted by the poet in the 
composition of " Telemachus," have been subjects of much 
discussion. Some have thought that the intentions of the 
writer never destined it to assume the form of a book, and 
that it was transcribed without forethought, a page at a time, 
to afford introductory subjects upon Greek and Latin studies 
to his pupil. The scope, the regularity, the continuity, and 
sublimity of the work, evidently composed from a sustained 
train of ideas, defeat these puerile suppositions. They are no 
less falsified by the nature of the subjects which Fenelon dis- 
cusses in Telemachus. Can any one suppose that a sensible 
instructor, a scrupulous guardian of the imagination of his 
pupil, would have bestowed upon him as the subject of his 
studies, and as an example of the best theories of government, 
the equivocal fables of the mythology, and the soft images of 
the amours of Eucharis? Such a conclusion is to calumniate 
the good sense and modesty of the poet. This book, which 
was in truth composed expressly for the young prince, was 
evidently written with the intention of fortifying his mind, 
when formed by manhood, against the doctrines of tyranny 
and the snares of voluptuousness, — pictures which the master 
presented to his pupil, to arm him beforehand against the 
seductions of a throne, and the allurements of his own heart. 
The truth of this hypothesis is, that the instructor detached 
from time to time, a page of his manuscript suited to the age 
and faults of the pupil, and made him translate it, with the 
intention of presenting to him in his composition, either the 
maxims he sought to inculcate, or the portraits of those vices 
he was desirous of counteracting by indirect lessons. But the 
entire poem, as a whole, formed the relaxation, the treasure, 
and the secret of the poet. 

All the world are acquainted with this poem — Christian in 
its inspiration, pagan in its form. This original defect corre- 
sponds perfectly with the man and the period. Fenelon, like 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 45 

his book, possessed a pagan genius and a Christian spirit. De- 
spite this vice of composition, which destroys the character of 
co-existence and nationality, — which all truly monumental 
books ought to display, if they seek to be the living and eter- 
nal memorials of true and original thoughts, — it is the most 
perfect treatise upon education and political economy that ex- 
ists in modern times : and this treatise has the unusual merit 
of being, at the same time, a poem, a moral essay, and a nar- 
rative ! It bears a threefold existence : it instructs, it inter- 
ests, and it charms. It is true, it lacks the melody of verse. 
Fenelon never possessed sufficient power of imagination to ex- 
ercise over his ideas that force of composition which embodies 
them in rhythm, or, as we may say, blends together words and 
images by throwing them into the mould of poetry. But his 
prose was intrinsically poetical ; and if it has not the perfec- 
tion; the cadence and harmony, it has, nevertheless, the full 
charm of measured numbers. It is always music, although of 
an uncertain sound, which flows softly and freely through the 
ear. This poetry may be less durable, but is also less fatiguing, 
than that of Homer or Virgil. If it possesses not the lasting- 
quality of metal, neither is it encumbered with the weight. 
An ordinary comprehension can follow it with less effort. Fe- 
nelon and Chateaubriand are poets as much through sentiment 
as by the power of imagery. They possess that which forms 
the essence of poetry, and makes the greatest poets. The only 
distinction is, that they speak instead of singing their stanzas. 
The true imperfection of this beautiful book consists not in 
its being written in prose, but rather iy its being a copy from 
the antique, instead of a modern original. We can fancy our- 
selves reading a translation from Homer, or a continuation of 
the Odyssey, by a disciple equal to his master. The places, 
the names, the customs, the people, the events, the images, the 
fables, the deities, the men, the earth, the sea, and the heaven, 
— all are Greek and pagan ; there is nothing French, and noth- 
ing Christian. The whole work is a caprice of genius — the 
disguise of a modern imagination beneath the fictions ana 
vestments of the ancient mythology. We feel it to be a sub- 



4:6 WORKS OF FIJNELON. 

lime imitation, but an imitation in every line. Fenelon is here, 
like a second Homer, living amid another people and in another 
age, singing fables to a generation who no longer believe them. 
Herein lies the fault of the poem. This was also the vice of 
the period, which, not having yet created its own poetry or its 
own imagery,' and finding itself surrounded, upon the revival 
of letters, by the monuments of Greek inspiration, thought 
nothing could be more beautiful than to copy these vestiges ; 
and thus original thought remained impotent from the force 
of admiration. 

But this error explained and excused, does not render the 
work of Fenelon less sublime. It seems the dictation of filial 
piety ; we may almost say, that it is a poem containing every 
virtuous and religious emotion belonging to man. The poet 
tells us that the young Telemachus, the ■ son of Ulysses and 
Penelope, conducted by Wisdom, in the shape of an old man, 
denominated Mentor, navigates the eastern seas in search of 
his father, who has been driven for ten years, by the anger of 
the gods, from his kingdom, the small island of Ithaca. Te- 
lemachus, during this long voyage, sometimes auspicious, occa- 
sionally the reverse, landing or driven upon numerous coasts, 
is often present at different forms of civilization, explained to 
him by his attendant guardian, Mentor. He encounters many 
dangers, experiences many passions ; is exposed to the snares 
of pride, of glory, of voluptuousness, and triumphs over all, 
through the assistance of that invisible Wisdom which coun- 
sels and protects him. Matured by years, and instructed by 
experience, he becomes an accomplished prince ; and, having 
encountered in the countries he has traversed, sometimes good 
kings, sometimes tyrants, and occasionally republics, he reduces 
the lessons which he has been taught by example, to the prac- 
tical government of his own people. 

Like Emile, the plebeian Telemachus of J. J. Rousseau, this 
poem is exclusively social and political. It is at once the critic 
and theorist of society and governments. It was intended to 
furnish the programme of a future reign, in which the Duke 
of Burgundy was to be the Telemachus, and Fenelon the Men- 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTDfE. 47 

tor. It is chiefly under this point of view that this book has 
exerted such a powerful influence over the mind of man. Fe- 
nelon was not only a poet, but also a political legislator ; a mod- 
ern Solon ; a living date throughout all the revolutions of 
society which have agitated the world since the appearance of 
his poem. We may say, without romance or exaggeration, 
that all good and all evil, all that is true, all that is false, alJ 
that is real and all that is chimerical, in the great European 
revolution of opinions and institutions, of which we have been 
the instruments, the spectators, and the victims, during a cen- 
tury, has flowed from this book, as from the fountain of good 
and evil. Telemachus is at once the grand revelation and 
Utopia of all classes of society. When we follow the chain 
attentively, link by link, from the most fanatic tribunes of the 
Convention to the Girondins, from the Girondins to Mirabeau, 
from Mirabeau to Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, from Bernardin 
de Saint-Pierre to J. J. Rousseau, from J. J. Rousseau to Tur- 
got, from Turgot to Vauban, from Vauban to the preceptor of 
the Duke of Burgundy, Ave shall discover in Fenelon the first 
revolutionist, the first tribune of the people, the first reformer 
of kings, the first apostle of liberty ; and in Telemachus we 
shall acknowledge the evangelist of the truths and errors of 
modern revolutions. The politics of Fenelon were virtuous, 
but chimerical. Hence the summits and precipices upon which 
this revolution rises, or down which it plunges lower and lower 
at each effort to become practical. The moral principles in- 
culcated by Telemachus are admirable, but the ideas upon 
government are absurd. In Fenelon, the political transforma- 
tion of the world possessed its prophet ; but it was compelled 
to wait another century for its statesman. The good sense of 
Louis the Fourteenth, sharpened by the exercise of govern- 
ment, taught him at once the true estimate of the man and 
the book. " Fenelon," said he, " is the most chimerical indi- 
vidual in my kingdom." 

All his general maxims, healthy in theory, have been de- 
stroyed in practice, by the imperfections inseparable from hu- 
manity. People ruled by their own wisdom ; patrician and 



48 WORKS OF FENELON. 

plebeian republics ; royalties tempered by the sacerdotal or 
popular authority ; representative government ; triennial as- 
semblies of the states-general of the nation ; provincial admin- 
istrations and assemblies ; the election and deposition of 
princes ; the sovereignty of the people in action ; the sup- 
pression of hereditary succession to the throne and magisterial 
offices ; liberty of conscience ; perpetual peace among nations ; 
fraternity and equality among the citizens ; the destruction 
of individual wealth, under the pretext of advantage to the 
community ; the arbitrary dictation of the State, as to the for- 
tunes of its subjects ; the distribution of lands and professions 
by the government ; public education enforcing equalizing 
principles, which all the children of the kingdom were com- 
pelled to undergo ; the community of benefits : the condem- 
nation of luxury ; the sumptuary laws, operating upon houses, 
lodgings, food, and elementary trades, such as agriculture, 
where the toils of the lower orders met with the strongest 
incitement from the suppression of luxury and the arts ; the 
maximum of price and of consumption in provisions; a system 
of political economy, by turns the best or the worst ; truth, 
error, Utopias, inconsistencies, contradictions, illusions, possi- 
bility, impossibility, extended views, short-sighted systems, 
dreams, undefined ideas, aspirations devoid of any solid foun- 
dation, without aim or possibility of being reduced to action ; — 
all contribute to render the political code inculcated by Telem- 
achus merely the pastoral of government. All is confused ; 
we feel ourselves floating in an ocean of human imagination, 
without compass to direct us, — tending towards neither pole, 
and without a coast to land upon. It resembles the Omtrat 
Social of J. J. Rousseau, the Utopia, of Plato, or that of Thomas 
More ; and is, in fact, a Pandemonium of empty speculations. 
Every thing in it is a shadow, and nothing substantial. While 
contemplating these four books — the Republic of Plato, the 
Utopia of More, the Telemachus of Fenelon, and the Contrat 
Social of J. J. Rousseau — we can repeat with conviction the 
saying of Frederic the Great, "If I had an empire' to punish, T 
would bestow the government of it upon the philosophers." 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMATCTINE. 4:9 

These philosophers, despite the grandeur of their genius, the 
elevation of their views, and the virtue of their designs, plan 
systems for humanity at large which are suited only to an ab- 
stract portion. Minds, without practical experience, construct 
their imaginary institutions upon clouds, and the moment 
these clouds touch the earth, their institutions melt into vapor, 
or fall to ruins. Fenelon, in " Telemachus," proves himself 
one of those philosophers who have created for the age which 
they imagine, the most beautiful, but the most mistaken per- 
spectives ; who equally mingle sound and unsound opinions ; 
and who have confounded a passion for ameliorating the con- 
dition of humanity with a passion for attaining the impossible. 
It is against such practical impossibilities that inexperienced rev- 
olution (of w T hich they are the parent) wounds, struggles, and 
always destroys itself ; and it is also from the anger created 
by the resistance which reality offers to chimera that spring 
the deceptions, the frenzies, the tyrannies, and the crimes of 
this very spirit of change. The visionary Utopiasts, who ad- 
vocate a purely metaphysical form of government, and the 
annihilation of power, produced the crimes and anarchies of 
the revolution of 1793. The Utopiasts of levelling property 
and social communism produced the panic, the disavowal, and 
the adjournment of the revolution of 1848. These two dreams 
of Fenelon have been looked upon as serious practicalities by 
short-sighted reasoners. The saintly poet has unintentionally 
been the first radical and the first communist of his age. 

The influence of this book in matters of political economy, 
has been no less powerful and equally fatal ; but its errors in 
this respect are more easily demonstrated. The declamations 
against art and luxury, the sumptuary laws to regulate the 
consumption of articles produced by labor, which are useless 
in our epoch, were applicable to the primitive condition of 
that antiquity from which Fenelon unfortunately drew his 
examples and imbibed his ideas. Upon the first establishment 
of any community strictly pastoral and agricultural, where the 
earth is cultivated with difficulty, and scarcely supplies the 
necessary aliment of man, it becomes the enforced law and 

Vol. I. — s 



50 WORKS OF FENELON. 

virtue of citizens to consume as little as possible, that their 
sobriety and abstemiousness may thus leave a larger portion 
to satisfy the wants of their brethren. The aim of such laws 
was to prevent scarcity, that scourge of new-born empires, 
Avhose existence depends upon abundance of provision. Under 
this view, temperance, which is now a virtue confined to our- 
selves, became a benefit conferred on society. Abstinence was 
an act of devotion — luxury a crime. We can thus compre- 
hend the usefulness of sumptuary laws in the remote periods 
of antiquity ; but when a community is firmly established, and 
has increased its productive powers by clearing land, by the 
acquisition of Hocks and machinery, when it no longer fears 
scarcity, and supports its immense population by the wages 
paid for the various products of art, intellect, and industry ; 
when the luxury of one class creates the riches of another ; 
when each pleasure, each vanity, and each caprice of the rich, 
pays, voluntarily or involuntarily, a reward for the labor 
which has supplied it, — the system of Fenelon, of Plato, and of 
J. J. Rousseau, appears no longer a mere absurdity, but 
assumes the serious aspect of a ruinous injury to the people. 
Consumption then becomes a virtue, and luxury proportioned 
to fortune supplies the necessities of the rest of mankind. 
This error of " Telemachus" is one of those which produced 
the worst evils of the Revolution, and its impression is still 
uneffaced from the minds of the people, much as it has mis- 
guided and injured them. 

Such is " Telemachus," — virtuous in maxim, deplorable in 
application. But as this poem responds by anticipation to the 
most noble and most legitimate instincts of justice, equality, 
and purity in the government of empires — as it was inspired 
by a pious mind, and written by a poetical genius — we can 
imagine the effect such a book was likely to produce upon 
the world. 

But "Telemachus" contained also the secret of Fenelon. 
He wrote it in the palace of Louis the Fourteenth, and con- 
cealed it from the notice of the king and the courtiers until 
near the close of the reign. In this book there was a terrible 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTLNE. 51 

accusation, which he reserved for the period when his pupil, 
the Duke of Burgundy, should have attained the years of 
maturity, and have approached more closely to the throne. 
It was a sealed confidence, to remain until then unbroken, 
between the master and the pupil. Perhaps this book was 
also destined at the moment of the young prince's accession, 
to proclaim a new political system — to be, in fact, the pro- 
gramme of a Fenelonian government. It was also a sort of 
indirect aspiration to the post of first minister, for which Fe- 
nelon might have felt a presentiment, without even acknowl- 
edging it to himself. -The ambition which his friend, the 
Abbe Tronson, had warned him against, as we have already 
seen, — that species of ambition which does not seek to aggran- 
dize its possessor, but which is involuntarily created and re- 
vealed by intellectual ability, — such was that of Fenelon. 
There are certain men whom nature has endowed with distinct 
privileges. Their ambition, instead of being the offspring of 
passion, is the emanation of mental power. They do not 
aspire, but they mount by an irresistible force, as the aero- 
static globe rises above an element heavier than itself, by the 
sole superiority of specific ascendency. The very goodness of 
Fenelon caused him to desire some future elevation, where his 
benevolent spirit could shed itself with more effect upon all 
around him. But envy now began to penetrate into the 
shade where he had sought concealment. People began to 
be alarmed at the influence exercised by him, not only in the 
capacity of master, but as a friend, over the mind of his pupil. 
The increasing interest daily evinced by Madame de Maintenon 
for the charms of his conversation, had a powerful influence at 
Court. The correspondence between her and Fenelon was as 
frequent as it was intimate. These letters display the boldness 
of those councils which Fenelon gave to the woman who in 
her turn counselled the king. He encouraged her to reign. 
"You have more resolution than you believe yourself to pos- 
sess." (He wrote thus in obedience to an expressed wish of 
hers that he would speak the truth, no matter how severe.) 
" You distrust yourself, or rather, you fear entering into dis- 



52 WORKS OF FENELON. 

cnssions opposed to the inclination you h^ave always felt for 

a life of tranquillity and retirement As the king is 

guided much less by the force of principles than by the impul- 
sion of those individuals who surround him, and upon whom 
he bestows his authority, it becomes essential that he should 
be influenced upon all occasions by truly good men, who, 
acting in concert with you, will induce the fulfilment, in their 
most extended view, of those duties which he never contem- 
plates. Since he must be surrounded, the grand point is, how 
to surround him ; since he must be ruled, how to rule him. 
His welfare consists in his being influenced by those who are 
upright and disinterested. You must, then, apply yourself to 
the task. Give him views of peace ; induce him to ameliorate 
the condition of the people ; above all, to adopt principles of 
moderation and equity; to suppress all harsh and violent 
counsels, and to hold in abhorrence acts of arbitrary authority. 
. . . There are at Court many people of virtuous and noble 
qualities, who merit your kindness and encouragement ; but 
you must exercise great precaution, for thousands would be- 
come hypocrites to please you." 

We see that Fenelon speaks of the errors of the king, as a 
man who places himself entirely in the power of Madame de 
Maintenon, the future mistress of his confidences ; we also see 
that, faithful to friendship, he sought to draw towards the 
virtuous section of the Court, the Dukes de Chevreuse and 
Beauvillier, all the favor of the sovereign ruler. We must not, 
however, forget that the cause of virtue was at the same time 
the cause of his friends and patrons. 

This correspondence, and this pious intercourse between 
Madame de Maintenon and Fenelon, gained more and more for 
the future author of " Telemachus" the regard and esteem of 
one who reigned with uncontrolled power : she frequently 
reverted with pleasure, in her advanced years, to the senti- 
ments she had then experienced. 

" I have often since wondered," writes she, " why I did not 
select the Abbo de Fenelon as the guide of my conscience, 
when his manners charmed me so much, and when his mind 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 53 

and virtues had so influenced me in his favor." She, more 
than any other woman in her position, required the society of 
a man in all points equally attractive and superior, surrounded 
as she was by common -place spirits, and by empty coldness. 
" Ah !" (she wrote at one period to her favorite niece), " alas 
that I cannot give you my experience, that I could only show 
you the weariness of soul by which the great are devoured ; 
the difficulty which they find in getting through their days. 
Do you not see how they die of sadness in the midst of that 
fortune which has been a burden to them ? I have been 
young and beautiful ; I have tasted many pleasures ; I have 
been universally beloved. At a more advanced age I have 
passed years in the intercourse of talent and wit, and I 
solemnly protest to you, that all conditions leave a frightful 
void." 

This friendship of Madame de Maintenon for the most fasci- 
nating man in the kingdom, inspired the monarch with the 
idea of recompensing Fenelon for his success in the education 
of his grandson, by the gift of the Abbacy of Saint-Valery. 
The king in person announced to him his gracious intention, 
and made many excuses for bestowing upon his services so 
tardy and disproportionate a reward. All things seemed to 
smile upon Fenelon. The heart of Madame de Maintenon 
seemed to have gained for him the love of the entire Court. 

But a snare was upon his path, and this snare lay in him- 
self, in his pure soul, and in his poetic imagination. He 
allowed himself to be seduced, not by his success, but by his 
piety. 

We have already stated at the commencement of this nar- 
rative, that the court of Louis the Fourteenth, in his advanced 
age, resembled rather a synod than a seat of government ; and 
that the most subtle dogmas of orthodoxy and theology occu- 
pied the place of war and politics. We must now proceed to 
name the period when the fortune of this bright genius, and, 
perhaps the destiny of France, were overthrown by the hallu- 
cinations of a woman and the anger of Bossuet. 

About that epoch there resided at Paris a young, beautiful, 



54 WORKS OF FENKLON. 

arid rich widow, Jeanne-Marie de Lamothe. She had been 
married to M. Guyon, the son of the constructor of the canal 
of Briare, whom she had lost at the early age of twenty-eight. 
Madame Guyon was gifted by nature with beauty of a dreamy 
and melancholy order, a passionate soul, and an imagination so 
exalted that earth could not satisfy it ; but seeking for love it 
mounted to heaven. She had been acquainted in Paris, before 
her marriage, with a young Barnabite recluse, of the name of 
Lacombe. The tender piety and mystic exaltation of this 
monk, produced upon the heart and mind of the young neo- 
phyte, one of those sudden impressions wherein grace and 
nature seem equally mingled ; as in the friendship of St. 
Francois de Sales and Madame de Chantal, where it was im- 
possible to discern whether admiration was most yielded to 
celestial virtue or human attraction. Madame Guyon, who 
had always kept up a correspondence with her religious 
instructor, no sooner became a widow than she retired to Gex, 
a little village of Bugey, on the declivity of the Jura, where 
Father Lacombe awaited her. The Bishop of Geneva, who 
hv'.ld as a fief the small village of Gex, was acquainted with the 
name, the attractions, the talent, the fortune, and the already 
notorious sanctity of the young widow. He considered it as 
an added glory to his Church, that a woman so endowed with 
natural and supernatural gifts should bury all in this solitude 
in order to consecrate them to the service of God. He there- 
fore resolved to bestow upon Madame Guyon, the direction of 
a convent of young girls, converted by his exertions from the 
schismatic doctrines of Calvin. Madame Guyon selected 
Father Lacombe for the superior of her convent. The intimacy 
of the widow and the monk, consecrated by the pious inter- 
course of their mutual residence, became exalted almost to a 
sort of ecstasy. The ardent imagination of the woman soon 
surpassed that of the man ; the master changed places with 
the disciple, and received from the eyes and lips of his peni- 
tent, inspirations and revelations as direct manifestations from 
heaven. 

This mystic commerce appeared suspicious to the minds of 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMAKTtNE. 55 

the unsophisticated. The Bishop of Geneva, after having in- 
voluntarily favored it, became alarmed, and removed the monk 
in disgrace to Thonon, another small village in his diocese, 
upon the banks of the lake of Geneva. Madame Guyon im- 
mediately followed her spiritual friend, and retired to an 
Ursuline convent at Thonon, where she constantly received 
Father Lacombe without restraint, and continued that ecstatic 
intercourse which gave her complete dominion over his feebler 
spirit, which it both subdued and charmed. From thence she 
went to Grenoble, to expand the fame of her heavenly love in 
conference with a small number of sectarians. The forests 
and rocks of the Grand Chartreuse attracted her by their sub- 
lime grandeur, and she there seemed to resemble the Sibyl of 
the desert. Finally, hoping to find on the other side of the 
Alps, the Italian imagination more susceptible of the fire of 
her new doctrines, she sent her disciple, Lacombe, to preach 
her faith at Verceil, in Piedmont. Thither she again followed 
him, and wandered about in his company for several years, 
from Gex to Thonon, from Thonon to Grenoble, from Verceil 
to Turin, from Turin to Lyons, leaving the world undecided 
between admiration and scandal. Admiration prevailed with 
all who examined closely the sincerity of her enthusiasm, the 
austerity of her life, and the purity of her habits. Upon her 
return from this long pilgrimage, she published at Lyons an 
exposition of the Song of Solomon, and several other works 
upon meditation. The doctrines they inculcated were drawn 
from Plato, and the first Christian commentators, chielly those 
belonging to Spain, that country of enthusiasm. Their object 
was to inculcate upon pious minds, as the type of true perfec- 
tion, the love of the Deity for himself alone, devoid of all de- 
sire of reward or fear of punishment. She recommended also 
a profound and absorbing contemplation of God, wherein the 
soul, drowned in the ocean of the divine essence, would con- 
tract the sinlessness of a purely innocent spirit, and becoming 
incapable of ascent or fall, would cast the body aside as a 
w T orn-out vestment, leaving it at liberty to fulfil its simply ma- 
terial functions, while the soul, exalted to heaven, would cease 



56 WORKS OF FENELON. 

to be held responsible for its earthly tenement. It was in fact 
the virtue of Divinity transplanted into man, by the indissolu- 
ble union of man to the Divinity ; the dream of every soul 
upon earth, and the anticipated condition of heaven. These 
maxims contained sublimity and sanctity for saints, but they 
were replete with dangerous snares for vulgar minds. 

The Church became alarmed at the rumor of such doctrines, 
and the Cardinal Lecamus, Bishop of Grenoble, denounced 
them to M. de Harlay, Archbishop of Paris, at Court. Ma- 
dame Guyon and Father Lacombe returned to the capital. The 
apostle and disciple were both arrested ; the monk was inter- 
rogated, thrown into the Bastille, afterwards confined in the 
Isle of Oleron, and ultimately incarcerated in the Castle of 
Lourdes, amid the roughest wilds of the Pyrenees, there to 
linger through many long and dreary years of expiation. 
Madame Guyon, confined in a convent in the street of Saint- 
Antoine, underwent the most strict examinations of the Church, 
and cleared herself triumphantly from all the accusations oi 
scandal and impiety, by which she had been assailed upon hei 
return to Paris. She became the example, the worship, the 
delight, and the admiration of the convent, which had been 
selected as her prison. Madame de Miramion, a person at that 
time also celebrated for her fervent light and zeal in the cause 
of piety, heard of the female captive, sought an interview with 
her, and became fascinated. She interceded with Madame de 
Maintenon to obtain the liberty of a woman so unjustly per- 
secuted. Madame de la Maisonfort, a relative of Madame de 
Maintenon, the Duchess of Bethune, daughter of the unfortu- 
nate Fouquet, and Madame de Beauvillier herself, the daughter 
of Colbert, united their entreaties to those of Madame de Mi- 
ramion ; Madame de Maintenon granted liberty to the protegee 
of such irreproachable women. In the first moment of her 
freedom, Madame Guyon flew to express her gratitude to her 
liberator. Madame de Maintenon succumbed to the universal 
fascination ; she felt drawn towards Madame Guyon as to the 
focus of piety, eloquence, and grace, which had been only ob- 
scured by the vapors of an effervescing imagination. She in- 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTLNE. 57 

troduced her to Saint-Cyr, an establishment where she had 
assembled beneath her own inspection the elite of all the no- 
bly born young girls in the kingdom ; and engaged her tc 
hold discourses there upon the mighty gifts of God, and to 
communicate her contemplative and pious thoughts upon di- 
vinity to the youthful residents. Madame de Maintenon stim- 
ulated this good work by her presence. She became the 
innocent accomplice of all the pious subtilties in which a 
mystical spirit indulged when rhapsodizing on divine love; 
and infected the sternest men about the Court with the same 
degree of admiration, including the Duke de Beauvillier, and 
the Duke de Chevreuse ; and she admitted Madame Guyon to 
a confidential intimacy inaccessible to others. It was in such 
a position, and beneath such auspices, that Fenelon encoun- 
tered Madame^ Guyon. The resemblance in gentleness and 
elevation of these two spirits, equally pious, and guided by 
imaginations equally ardent, established at once between Fe- 
nelon and Madame Guyon a spiritual intercourse, in which 
there was no seduction but piety, and nothing to be seduced 
but enthusiasm. 

The mystic recitals of Madame Guyon, while affording such 
ecstasy to Fenelon and Madame de Maintenon, appeared to 
them as the exhalations of a peculiar devotion, the exercise of 
which was suited only to the privacy of the sanctuary, and 
which must be carefully veiled from the gaze of the vulgar, as 
likely to produce only intoxication in the uneducated mind. 
The king, whose faith was as simple as his imagination, held 
a sterner opinion. 

" I have read extracts from the works of our friend, to the 
king," writes Madame de Maintenon, "but he tells me they 
are mere ravings ; he is not yet sufficiently advanced in piety 
to appreciate their perfection." She adds, in another place : 
"The maxims of the Abbe Fenelon should not be published to 
those who cannot understand them. As regards Madame 
Guyon, we must be content to monopolize her to ourselves, 
The Abbe Fenelon is right in advising that her works should 
be kept private, for they would preach of the liberty of the 



58 WOKKb OF FE^ELON. 

children of God, to those who have not yet become his chil- 
dren." 

We see that Fenelon opposed himself to the display of an 
ideal perfection likely to become a cause of offence to the 
weak-minded ; his spiritual accordance with Madame Guyon 
was less complete than that of Madame de Maintenon and the 
Court, and his admiration, held in check by prudence, though 
enthusiastic, never reached the point of fanaticism. 

His strong attachment to these doctrines proceeded from 
his peculiar mental organization, and from a leaning to that 
mystical love of the Deity, in which tenderness is mixeu with 
subtilty. Let us listen to him speaking of St. Teresa, and T.e 
shall discover in his admiration the peculiar bent and natural 
source of his own devotion. We shall at the same time per- 
ceive the reserve, the judgment, and the prudence which ever 
pervaded his lofty mind. 

" From the simple worship in which Teresa was at first ab- 
sorbed, God elevated her mind to the most sublime height of 
contemplation. She entered into that union where the virginal 
marriage of husband and wife commences, where she becomes 
all to him, he every thing to her. Revelations, the spirit of 
prophecy, visions which assumed no tangible form, raptures, 
ecstatic torments, as she herself said, in which the spirit is 
overwhelmed, and the body succumbs, and in which the pres- 
ence of God is so realized that the soul sinks overwhelmed and 
consumed, unable to support its burden of sublime awe ; in 
fact, every supernatural gift seemed poured upon her. Her 
directors were at first sight mistaken. They judged of her 
capability for the practice of virtue by the nature of 1 or 
prayers, and by the remains of that weakness and imperfection 
which God left, in order to humiliate her. They concluded 
her to be under the influence of a dangerous illusion which 
they desired to exorcise. Alas ! what trouble for a soul simply 
desirous of obedience, and influenced, as that of St. Teresa was, 
by terror, when she felt her mental powers completely over- 
turned by her instructors. 'I was,' said she, ' like one in the 
midst of a river, on the point of being drowned without hope 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 59 

of succor. She no longer recognized herself, nor knew what 
she said when praying. That which had formed her consola- 
tion for so many years now added bitterness to her distress. 
In order to obey, she tore herself from her inclination, but in- 
voluntarily returned without the power to abandon or resume 
it. Assailed by these doubts, she experienced all the horrors 
of despair. Every thing seemed confused and terrifying ; 
every hope appeared to desert her. God himself, upon whom 
she had hitherto reposed w r ith such confidence, had become to 
her as a dream ; and in her agony she cried, like Mary Mag- 
dalene, 4 They have taken away my Lord, and I know not 
where they have laid him.' 

" Oh ! ye anointed of the Lord, cease not to study by inces- 
sant prayer and meditation the most profound and mysterious 
operations of his grace, since ye are its dispensers I What 
does it not cost the souls that you instruct, when the coldness 
of your peculiar studies and your ignorance of internal guides 
cause you to condemn all that has not come within the course 
of your experience ! Happy are the souls who find men of 
God, as St. Teresa ultimately 4id — the holy Francis de Borgia 
and Peter of Alcantara, who smoothed the difficulties of her 
path. * Till then,' said she, ' I felt more shame in declaring my 
revelations than I had ever experienced in the confession of 
my greatest sins.' And shall we, too, shrink from speaking of 
these revelations in a century when incredulity is considered 
wisdom ? Shall we blush at the mention of praise for that 
grace which effected so much in the heart of St. Teresa ? No, 
no ; be silent, century ! in which even those who believe 
the tiuths of religion, pride themselves upon rejecting without 
examination, as mere fables, all the miracles which God has 
displayed in his elected instruments. 

" I know that these emotions must be experienced in order 
to feci that they come from God. God forbid that I should 
sanction a weak credulity in extravagant visions ! But let me 
neither hesitate in faith where he directly sends the revelation ! 
He who poured miraculous gifts in a stream from on high, 
upon the first believers, has he not promised to shed his spirit 



60 WOKXS OF FENELOW. 

upon all flesh ? Has he not said, ' On my servants and on my 
hand-maidens V Although these latter times are less worthy 
than an earlier period of such celestial communications, must 
we therefore look upon them as impossible ? Is their source 
exhausted ? Is heaven closed against us ? Is it not rather 
that the un worthiness of our age renders such mercies more 
necessary, to enlighten the faith and increase the charity now 
almost extinct ? 

" Ah ! rather would I forget myself than forget the writings 
of Teresa. So simple, so earnest, so natural, that in the act 
of reading we forget that we read, and fancy ourselves listen- 
ing to her voice. Oh ! how wise and gentle are those counsels 
in which my soul has tasted of the hidden manna ! with what 
ingenuousness does she recount facts ! It is not a recital, but 
a picture. What a power does she possess of describing va- 
rious -conditions ! I behold with ecstasy, that like St. Paul, 
words failed to express all that she conceived. What a living 
faith ! The heavens lay open before her. She comprehended 
all things, and discoursed as familiarly of the sublimest reve- 
lations as she did of the commonest occurrences. Imbued 
only with a spirit of obedience, she spoke incessantly of herself 
and her sublime gifts without pride or ostentation, without al- 
lusion to any personal superiority. Mighty soul, which esti 
mates itself as nothing, and beholding God in all things, 
abandons itself without fear to the instruction of others ! Oh ! 
how dear are these instructions to all who seek to serve God 
in prayer, and how highly have they been lauded by the voice 
of the Church ! I dare not display them to the gaze of the 
profane. Away, away, haughty and prying spirit, seeking to 
read these works only to tempt God, and to despise the riches 
of his goodness ! Where are ye, simple and meditative souls 
to whom they belong ? ... If ye fully comprehend the happi- 
ness of dwelling in God and seeking to dwell in him only, ye 
will taste the centuple promise of this life ; your peace will 
flow on like a river, and your justice will be fathomless as the 
depths of the ocean." 

Despite the intention of the Abbe Fenelon and Madame 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 61 

Guyon to keep the new doctrines which so kindled their ardent 
souls, confined within the precincts of St. Cyr and Versailles, 
their fame transpired and reached the Archbishop of Paris, 
Bossuet, and the Bishop of Chartres, the spiritual director of 
Madame de Maintenon. These three oracles of the Church 
united, and denounced Fenelon as a dangerous abettor of new 
and presumptuous opinions, whom it was necessary, for the 
safety of that religion so lately re-established, to remove from 
the king and his grandson. Bourdaloue, a celebrated and 
venerated pulpit orator, consulted upon these doctrines, replied 
in a stern letter : "Silence on these subjects is the best guar- 
dian of peace : they should only be mentioned in sacred con- 
fidence with spiritual directors." This private conspiracy of 
harsh condemnation against Fenelon smouldered for a long 
time before it burst into flame. 

Nothing up to this period indicated any plan on the part of 
Bossuet to lower his cherished disciple in the king's estima- 
tion ; he displayed only the alarmed suspicions incidental to a 
believer in tradition who repels with contempt and pride all 
new opinions ; and the anxious grief of a doctrinal instructor 
who beholds his pupil's faith wavering. The explosion of 
Bossuet's holy indignation was caused by the feelings we have 
described, and not by the impulse of petty jealousy ; a passion 
which has no existence in a haughty mind. Bossuet was 
equally exalted in his nature and his pride ; he envied not, he 
crushed at once. With the thunderbolt in hand, ambuscade 
is unnecessary. 

Bossuet likewise sought in the beginning of this quarrel 
rather to suppress than condemn. He treated the visions of 
Madame Guyon as the errors of a diseased mind. He con- 
sented to see this celebrated female, and listened with indul- 
gence to her explanations, and expressions of regret for the 
troubles she had unintentionally caused. He invited her to 
participate in the solemnities of his private chapel, and coun- 
selled her to silence, obscurity, and absence from Paris and the 
Court, during some months. He undertook in the mean time 
to examine personally, and at his leisure, her writings, and to 



62 WORKS OF FENELON. 

pronounce upon them a final decision, to which she should 
submit with voluntary deference. He fulfilled his promise, 
read, and censured the books of his fair penitent. He wrote 
to her, and pointed out with pious benevolence passages op 
posed to reason and dangerous to morality. He conversed 
confidentially with Fenelon upon the aberrations of his spirit- 
ual friend, and conjured him to join in their condemnation. 
Fenelon, convinced of Madame Guyon's orthodoxy, and dis- 
tressed at the persecutions by which she was menaced, at- 
tempted, with more magnanimity than policy, to justify her in 
the estimation of Bossuet. He refused to condemn as a the- 
ologian that which he admired as a man, a poet, and a friend. 
He replied that God often chose the feeblest instruments for 
the manifestation of his glory ; that the spirit was impelled 
according to his will ; that the lofty eloquence of prophets and 
sibyls acknowledged not the laws which regulate the language 
of the schools ; and that before pronouncing the sentence of 
madness upon those inspired by God, time should be allowed 
to prove their revelations. Bossuet was overwhelmed with 
grief. 

The king, who meddled with theology, but comprehended 
only the discipline and infallible authority of the Church, now r 
displayed his indignation. Madame de Maintenon, the intro- 
ducer of all this scandal to St. Cyr, to the Court, and the 
Church, trembled at the thought of appearing before his Maj- 
esty as the accomplice and abettor of those who had alarmed 
the royal conscience. She immediately abandoned her friends 
and withdrew from them her countenance. She did not, how- 
ever, at first unite with their persecutors, and continued to 
render in secret, justice to their intentions and their innocence; 
but she pressed for the assembling of a doctrinal synod to 
judge the question, and to relieve her of a responsibility in 
this affair which had become too weighty. 

"Yet another letter from Madame Guyon," she writes; 
" this woman is very troublesome ; it is true she is also deeply 
unfortunate ! She entreats of me to-day to procure the nomi- 
nation of M. Tronson, a friend of Fenelon, as one of the judges, 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 63 

I am not certain that the king wonld like to offer such a mor- 
tification to the Archbishop of Paris . . . M. PAbbe de Fene- 
lon has too much piety not to feel that it is possible to love 
God for himself alone, and he has too great a mind to allow of 
his believing that we can associate this love with the most 
shameful vices. He is not solely the advocate of Madame 
Guyon. Although he is her friend, he is the defender of re- 
ligion and Christian perfection. I repose upon his truth be- 
cause I have known few men equally sincere, and I permit yoi* 
to communicate this to him." 

The conferences opened under the superintendence of Bos 
suet, who, a stranger to all subtilties, entreated of Fenelon 
again to initiate him into the mystic flights of various French 
Spanish, and Italian works which the Church had tolerated, 
and which he, in his rude common sense, denominated amus- 
ing extravagances. Fenelon analyzed for Bossuet all the 
books which contained the source from whence Madame 
Guyon had drawn her peculiar enthusiasm, and the letter 
which he wrote upon them proves that he was still restrained 
by deference to the opinion of the Bishop of Meaux. " No 
longer feel anxiety on my account" (thus he writes when 
forwarding the volumes) : " in your hands I am a mere child , 
these doctrines pass by me without leaving an impression; 
one form of belief appears to me as good as another. From 
the moment that you spoke, all has been effaced. When 
even what I have read appears to me as clear as that two and 
two make four, I behold it less distinctly than the necessity of 
rejecting the guidance of my own judgment, and of preferring 
to it that of such a pontiff as you are ! . . . I hold too firmly 
by tradition ever to abandon that which in those days ought 
to be the chief column of our support." 

Meantime the Archbishop of Paris, impatient of the length 
of these conferences, delivered separately his own opinion 
against Madame Guyon and her doctrines. Madame de Main- 
tenon, fearing that Fenelon would be compromised in these 
denunciations of the Church of Paris, and torn from the Court, 
where she wished to retain him, had recourse to the seduction 



64 WORKS OF FENELON. 

of royal favor in order to detach him from Madame Guyon. 
The king appointed him Archbishop of Cambray. Under this 
title, Madame de Maintenon hoped to associate him with those 
bishops who were appointed as the judges of Madame Guyon, 
and to compel his condemnation as a pontiff of that which he 
had admired as a friend. The king at once entered into this 
well-meaning plot, and we see here mingled all the ability of a 
courtier and the affection of a warm adherent. She sought at 
the same time to reassure the king as to the soundness of Fe 
nelon's doctrines, and to withdraw the latter from Madame 
Guyon, whom she abandoned to the bishops. 

Fenelon, alarmed at the prospect of a dignity which would 
separate him from his pupil, represented to the king that the 
greatest honor, in his eyes, was the tender love subsisting 
between himself and his grandson ; and that he would not 
voluntarily exchange it for any other. Louis the Fourteenth 
answered him with great kindness, " No ; I intend that you shall 
still continue the preceptor of my grandson. The discipline 
of the Church only demands nine months' residence in your 
diocese. You will give the other three to your pupils here, 
and you will superintend at Cambray their education during 
the rest of the year as thoroughly as if you were at Court." 

Fenelon, transported by such favors, resigned, contrary to 
custom, an abbey which he possessed, and resisted with the 
most exemplary disinterestedness all the persuasions and ex- 
amples which encouraged him to retain these ecclesiastical 
revenues. He desired to carry to his bishopric no portion of 
the income which he considered as belonging to others, who 
were in necessity. The world admired, but hesitated to imi- 
tate his example. 

The king, through the instigation of Madame de Maintenon, 
added him to the committee of bishops appointed to investigate 
the doctrines of Madame Guyon ; but the conference was 
already dissolved, and Bossuet, sole reporter, and exclusive 
dictator, privately arranged the decision. Fenelon, after hav- 
ing discussed and succeeded in modifying the terms so far as 
to exclude all personal censure of Madame Guyon, signed the 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTLNE. 65 

exposition of the purely theological principles of this manifesto. 
Peace seemed so thoroughly cemented between these two 
oracles of the faith in France, that Bossuet desired to preside 
in person, as consecrating pontiff, at the installation of his dis- 
ciple and friend. The king, his son and his grandson, with 
the entire Court, assembled in the chapel of St. Cyr, to witness 
the ceremony in which the genius of eloquence consecrated 
the genius of poetry. 

But scarcely had this peace been re-established by the in- 
tervention of Madame de Maintenon, the forbearance of Bos- 
suet, the humility of Fenelon, and the silence of Madame 
Guyon, when new causes of discussion sprang up between the 
bishops. Madame Guyon secretly evaded the offer made to 
her by Bossuet of a safe retreat in a convent at Meaux, the 
capital of his diocese. She had written to him that she would 
retire into solitude, far from the world and its storms ; but she 
still lingered at Paris, concealed among her disciples, whose 
devotion daily became more fervent. In the number were in- 
cluded Fenelon and his two friends, the Duke de Beauvillier 
and the Duke de Chevreuse. 

At this period the Archbishop of Paris died. He was a 
man of worldly habits, whose demeanor disquieted the con- 
science of the king. A successor of exalted virtue was now 
sought for, to purify the see. The Church nominated Bossuet, 
the public selected Fenelon. Madame de Maintenon hesitated 
between the two; one was more dreaded, the other more 
loved ; suspicions of a tendency to new doctrines clung to Fe- 
nelon, and apprehensions of tyranny were associated with 
Bossuet. Madame de Maintenon bestowed the see of Paris 
upon M. de Noailles, an exemplary pontiff and one in favor at 
Court. Bossuet resented the injury with dignity, and neither 
abased himself to solicit nor refuse. " All things show," wrote 
he to his friends in Paris, " that God, as much from his mercy 
as his justice, designs to leave me where I am. When you 
desire that they should offer in order that I should refuse, you 
seek only the gratification of my vanity. It would be better 
to look for the increase of humility ! there can no longer be a 



66 WORKS OF FENELON. 

doubt that, despite the empty disquisitions of men, and accord- 
ing to my own wishes, I shall be interred here at the feet of 
my saintly predecessors, and shall continue to work out the 
salvation of that flock which has been confided to me." The 
grandeur of this ambition lay in its frankness. Bossuet re- 
sented the indignity offered to his talents in the preference of 
M. de Noailles ; but he condescended neither to murmur nor 
to regret. He did not even express a wish : he felt his ven- 
geance in his superiority. 

Nevertheless, whether from the humiliation he experienced 
in being weighed in the scale against the youth of Fenelon 
and the mediocrity of M. de Noailies, whether from any sus- 
picion that the disloyal evasion of Madame Guyon and her 
continued residence in Paris was instigated by Fenelon, who 
thus betrayed the confidence he had placed in his disciple, the 
concealed resentment of his soul soon burst forth. He so- 
licited from the king the arrest of Madame Guyon, who was 
consequently discovered in Paris, and incarcerated in a mad- 
house. 

" How do you desire that she should be disposed of?" wrote 
Madame de Maintenon to the Archbishop of Paris : " and 
what are we to do with her friends and her papers ?" ""The 
king remains here all day; write to him directly." — "I am 
delighted at this arrest," also wrote Bossuet to Madame de 
Maintenon ; " this mystery concealed many injuries to the 
Church." 

Fenelon, then at Cambray, heard with grief that his friend 
was to be conveyed to Vincennes. The Duke de Beauvillier 
now began to fear that the education of the young Duke of 
Burgundy would be taken out of the hands of Fenelon. 

" It is evident," wrote he, " that a powerful and determined 
intrigue exists against the Archbishop of Cambray. Madame 
de Maintenon obeys what has been suggested to her, and is 
ready to lend herself to any extreme measures in opposition to 
him. I behold him upon the verge of being torn from the 
princes, as a man suspected of inspiring them with dangerous 
doctrines. If this plan should succeed, my turn will follow ; 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 67 

but I feel no anxiety with regard to myself. ... As to M. de 
Fenelon, I should not counsel him, even if he wished it, to 
announce any formal condemnation of the books of Madame 
Guyon. It would afford the greatest joy to the libertines of 
the Court, and at the same time confirm all the injurious 
reports which have been spread abroad to the prejudice of her 

sanctity Would not such a step afford grounds of belief 

that he was an accomplice in all that they impute to this un- 
fortunate woman, and that policy and fear of disgrace com- 
pelled his abjuration? I feel myself conscientiously forced on 
all occasions openly to declare whatever can justify M. de Fe- 
nelon ; and when he is disgraced I shall do it still more loudly, 
because it will then be even more evident that truth and justice 
alone compel my vindication " 

After various examinations, Madame Guyon was transferred 
to the convent of Vaugirard, under the superintendence of the 
Cure of St. Sulpice. " For this mild treatment," wrote Mad- 
ame de Maintenon, " we have not the approbation of Bossuet, 
but for myself I feel it to be my duty as much as possible to 
turn aside all severities." 

"They desire me to condemn the -person of , Madame 
Guyon," wrote Fenelon at the same time. "When the 
Church issues a decree against her doctrines, I shall be ready 
to sign it with my blood. Beyond that, I neither can nor 
ought to agree to any thing. I have closely examined a life 
which has infinitely edified me. Wherefore should they wish 
me to condemn her upon other points of which I know noth- 
ing ? Would it be right that I should help to crush an indi- 
vidual whom others have united to destroy, and one to whom 
I have been a friend ? . . . . 

" As regards Bossuet, I shall only be too glad to adhere to 
the doctrines of his book if he wishes it ; but I cannot hon- 
estly or in conscience join him in attacking a woman who ap^- 
pears to me innocent, and writings which I have abandoned to 
condemnation without attaching to them my own censure. 
.... Bossuet is a holy pontiff, an affectionate and steadfast 
friend ; but he seeks, by an excessive zeal for the Church and 



6S WORKS OF FENELON. 

friendship for me, to carry me beyond due bounds. ... I be- 
lieve Madame de Maintenon to be influenced by the same 
feelings. . . . She condemns and pities me by turns, with 
every new impression that others convey to her. . . . All, 
then, as regards myself, is reduced to this, — I will not speak 
against my conscience, nor will I consent to insult a woman 
whom, from what I have personally observed, I have reverenced 
as a saint. . . ." 

" If I were capable," added he, afterwards, in another letteT 
of tender reproach to Madame de Maintenon, who persecuted 
him from friendship, — " If I were capable of approving of a 
v. oman who preached a new gospel, I ought to be deposed and 
brought to the stake rather than supported as you sustain me 
But I may very innocently have mistaken a person whom 1 
believe to be devout. I have never felt any natural affection 
for her. I have never experienced any extraordinary personal 
emotion, that could influence me in her favor ; she is confident 
to excess ; the proof of this is manifest, since he (Bossuet) has 
related to you as impieties the particulars which she confided 
to him. ... I count her pretended prophecies and her as- 
sumed revelations as nothing. I have never heard her use the 
blasphemous images which they attribute to her, in her mys- 
tical disquisitions upon divine love ; I would wager my head 
that all this has been exaggerated ; but Bossuet is inexcusable 
for having repeated to you as one of Madame Guyon's doc- 
trines what in effect was nothing more than a dream or figur- 
ative expression All that has been said against her 

conduct is mere calumny. I feel so persuaded of her never 
having designed any thing evil, that I undertake to say on her 
part that she will give every satisfactory explanation and re- 
tractation. . . . Perhaps you think I say this in order to obtain 
her liberty, but so far from that, I promise that she shall give 
her explanations without quitting her prison. I will not even see 
her ; I will only write to her unsealed letters, which you and her 
accusers shall read . . , . After all that, leave her to die in pris- 
on; I am content that she should perish there — that we should 
never see her again, and never more hear her name mentioned. 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTESTE. 69 

" Wherefore, then, madame, do you close your heart against 
us, as if our religion were different from yours ? . . . Fear not 
that I shall oppose Bossuet ; I never even speak of him but 
as my master ; I willingly look upon him as • the conqueror, 
and as one who has brought me back from my wanderings ; 
in all sincerity, I feel only deference and obedience towards 
him. . . ." 

Fenelon, thus placed by his own imprudence, and by the 
sternness of his adversaries, in such a position that his only 
alternative was the crime of condemning one he believed in- 
nocent, or the humiliation of condemning himself and drawing 
upon his own head the thunders of Bossuet, who then ruled 
the Church of France, — retired in sadness, and foreboding the 
ruin of his cherished prospects, to the solitude of Cambray. 
There, in order to vindicate the purity of his faith and to clear 
himself from the accusations of Bossuet, he composed his 
book, entitled " Maxims of the Saints." This was a justifica- 
tion, through extracts taken from the works and opinions 
promulgated by the very oracles of the Church, of the disin- 
terested love of God ; the transcendent doctrine of the mystics 
of all ages. He humbly submitted his manuscript, page by 
page, to M. de Noailles, who promised that it should only be 
inspected by his theologians, and not communicated to Bossuet. 
He corrected from their notes every passage with which they 
did not agree, in the most minute point ; and his friend the 
Duke de Chevreuse undertook to have the book published. 

Bossuet, incensed at the rumor' of the approaching appear- 
ance of a book which had been kept a profound secret from 
him, wrote as follows : " I feel sure that this work will be 
productive of enormous scandal. ... I cannot in conscience 
suffer it to go forth ! . . . . God guides me to the knowledge 
that they thus wish to establish presumptuous opinions, which 
would lead to the overthrow of religion. . . . This is the truth, 
for which I would sacrifice my life ! . . . They exclude me on 
this occasion, after having proffered so much submission in 
words, simply because they feel that God, on whom I rely, wil) 
give me the power of exploding their mine ! . . ." 



70 WORKS OF FENELON. 

The anger of Bossuet upon the appearance of this book was 
contagious. Fenelon's justification appeared a crime against 
the authority of the great oracle of the Church in France. 
The king adopted the cause of the episcopal leader. D'Agues- 
seau, an impartial and contemporary historian, attributed this 
manifestation of anxiety by Louis the Fourteenth, to the bitter 
aversion he cherished against the superior qualities of Fenelon. 

" Whether the king feared," says D'Aguesseau, " minds of a 
superior order; whether it was a refined singularity, a peculiar 
reserve in the manner and habits of Fenelon, which were dis- 
pleasing to a prince whose ideas flowed in a simple and ordi- 
nary current ; whether it was that Fenelon, from a profound 
policy, sought to absorb himself in his immediate functions, 
ind abstained from any attempt to insinuate himself into the 
confidence and favor of the king ; it is quite certain that Louis 
the Fourteenth never loved him, and felt no repugnance against 
sacrificing him to his enemies." Bossuet strengthened this 
disposition by the fears which he excited in the king's con- 
science. He accused himself "of a criminal complicity, in not 
having sooner revealed to the king the fanaticism of his pupil? 
The Court being made aware of the king's secret antipathy, 
dow universally joined in condemning the presumptuous arch- 
heretic. 

" A nature so happily endowed," again said D'Aguesseau, 
" was perverted, like that of the first man, by the voice of a 
woman. His talents, his ambition, his fortune, even his repu- 
tation, were all sacrificed, not to an illusion of the senses, but 
to a fascination of the mind. We behold this sublime genius, 
impelled to become the prophet and oracle of a sect, fertile in 
specious and seducing imagery. He seeks to be a philosopher, 
but we find him only an orator ; a character which he has pre- 
served in every work emanating from his pen to the close of 
his life." 

Calumny went so far as to accuse Fenelon of having flat- 
tered the king's devotion, in order to render it instrumental in 
the advancement of his fortune ; and of having planned a 
junction of politics and mysticism, in order to establish, 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTTNE. 71 

through the unseen ties of a secret language, a powerful cabal, 
at the head of which he would always reign by the force and 
mastery of his genius. These imputations fell at once before 
the courage displayed by Fenelon, in braving the anger of the 
king, and opposing Bossuet, to support a persecuted woman, 
and a calumniated doctrine. He was universally abandoned. 
The dread of being involved in the disgrace into which he had 
voluntarily precipitated himself, caused every one to fear and 
avoid, not only any attempt in his justification, but also every 
emotion of pity. He remained as much isolated at Versailles 
as he had been at Cambray, while he awaited in daily expecta- 
tion an order to exile himself from the Court. It was in this 
crisis of mental distress that a fire consumed his episcopal 
palace of Cambray, with the furniture, books, and manuscripts, 
comprising all the wealth he had transported thither. He 
received this blow with his habitual serenity. " I had rather," 
said he to the Abbe Langeron, who hastened to inform him of 
this domestic calamity, "that the fire had seized my house 
than a poor man's cottage." 

In the mean while Bossuet fulminated severe censures against 
Fenelon's book, but at the same time continued to display the 
feelings of old attachment. " It is hard," said he, " to speak 
thus of one accustomed till now to listen as readily to my 
voice as I listened to his in return. God, before whom I now 
write, is aware of the agony which has demonstrated my deep 
grief, that a friend of so many years should judge me unworthy 
of his confidence ; I who have never even raised my voice in a 
whisper against him ! the friend of my whole life ! .... a 
beloved adversary, who, as God is my witness, I love and cher- 
ish in my inmost heart ! . . . ." 

At the moment when Bossuet wrote these lines, the king 
sent an order to Fenelon, commanding him to quit Versailles, 
and repair to Cambray, without pausing at Paris. He forbade 
his going to Rome to make any appeal to the Pope for a judg- 
ment upon his doctrines, fearing, doubtless, that his genius and 
virtue would exercise the same influence at Rome as every- 
where else. The king, at the same time, wrote to Rome, to 



72 WORKS OF FENELON". 

demand from the sovereign pontiff the condemnation of the 
Archbishop of Cambray, promising to carry it into execution 
by all the power of his royal authority. 

The separation between Fenelon and the Duke of Burgundy, 
his pupil, mutually lacerated their hearts. The tears of the 
Duke de Beauvillier, and of the Duke de Chevreuse, mingled 
with those of the young prince and his friend. The Duke of 
Burgundy in vain threw himself at the feet of the king his 
grandfather, imploring him to send a counter-order, a reprieve, 
a pardon. " No, my son," replied the king ; " I have no power 
as a master to make this a matter of clemency. It touches the 
safety of our faith ; Bossuet is a better authority on this point 
than either }^ou or I !" 

Madame de Maintenon was deeply distressed, but continued 
the more inexorable from having been an accomplice, and re- 
fused to see Fenelon. 

The Duke de Beauvillier, faithful to virtue as to friendship, 
unbosomed all his feelings to the dispenser of grace. " Sire," 
said he to the king, " I am the work of your Majesty's hands ; 
you have elevated and you can abase me. In the commands 
of my sovereign I recognize the commands of God. I shall 
quit the Court, Sire, with regret for having displeased you, but 
with the hope and prospect of a life of greater tranquillity." 

Fenelon conjured the Duke de Beauvillier and his friends to 
adopt a different course, and not to involve themselves in his 
ruin. " I am here overwhelmed by the opprobriums which all 
have cast upon me," he wrote to these friends ; " but let me 
alone be sacrificed. In a short time all the unreal dreams of 
this life will vanish, and we shall be reunited forever in the 
kingdom of truth, where we shall encounter neither error, 
division, nor censure ; where we shall be partakers of the peace 
of God ! In the mean time let us suffer, let us hold our peace, 
too happy if by being trampled in the dust our ignominy tends 
to his glory !" 

Arrived at his diocese, Fenelon gave himself up entirely to 
study and to works of charity. From this solitude emanated 
thousands of pages breathing the literary genius of the purest 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTLNE. 73 

works of antiquity, and the modern inspiration of Christian 
benevolence. They treat of the Divinity with a lofty power 
of mind and language, and often display the tenderest enthu- 
siasm. We feel that each word contains a prayer, or some 
incense of adoration, as heat pervades vitality. We may with 
truth say, that Fenelon could not name God without a prayer. 

We shall present to the reader a few pages extracted at 
hazard from the multiplicity of treatises and letters in which 
he poured forth his thoughts : they depict his mind with more 
fidelity than any expressions we could select of our own. 

" Every thing in the universe bears the stamp of Divinity ; 
the heavens, the earth, plants, animals, and above all the 
human race. All things demonstrate a consistent design, a 
chain of subordinate causes, connected and guided in order, 
by one superior cause." . . . . " There is nothing left to criti- 
cise in this great work: — the defects which we encountei 
proceed from the uncontrolled and disordered will of man, 
who produces them by his own blindness; or they are de- 
signed by that God, who is always holy and just, for the pun- 
ishment of the unfaithful ; and sometimes he uses the wicked 
as instruments to exercise and draw the good to perfection. 
Often that which appears to our limited view an error, proves 
by its ultimate purpose to be a portion of the great universal 
design, the sublime whole which our finite intellects are inca- 
pable of comprehending. Does it not occur each day that 
certain portions of the works of men are hastily blamed ? and 
does it not require a comprehensive mind to grasp the extent 
of their designs ? This is continually evidenced in the produc- 
tions of painters and architects." 

" If the characters used in writing were of enormous size, 
when viewed closely one alone would occupy the whole vision 
of a man; it would be impossible for him to distinguish more 
than on^ s,t a time ; he would be incapable of assembling them 
in a body, or of reading their collective sense. It is the same 
with the great features displayed by Providence in the entire 
guidance of the world during a long succession of centuries ; 
only as a whole can it be intelligible, and the whole is too vast 

Vol. L— 4 



74 WORKS OF FENELON. 

for a close inspection. Every event resembles a single charac- 
ter, too great lor the insignificance of our organs, and convey- 
ing no meaning if separated from the rest. When, at the end 
of all time, we shall behold God truly as he is, and comprehend 
the sum of events which have fallen upon the human race from 
the first day of the universe to the last, and their proportionate 
aim in the designs of the Almighty, then we shall exclaim, 
'Thou only, Lord, art wise and just!' " 

" But after all, the greatest defects in this creation are 
merely the blemishes left by God, in order to show us that he 
raised it from a void. There is nothing in the universe which 
does not and should not display these two opposite charac- 
ters : — on one side the sea of the Great Worker, and on the 
other the mark of that nothingness from which all has pro- 
ceeded, and into which at any moment all may again be re- 
solved. It is an incomprehensible mingling of baseness and 
grandeur, of frailty in material, and of art in construction. 
The hand of God shines through all gradations, down to the 
organization of an earthworm ; while nothingness reveals itself 
everywhere, — even in the sublimest and most comprehensive 
genius." 

" All that is not of God can possess only a limited perfec- 
tion ; and that which possesses only such a limited perfection 
remains always incomplete at the point where the limit reveals 
itself, and proves to us that much is still wanting. The crea- 
ture would become the Creator himself, if nothing were want- 
ing to him ; for he would possess the fulness of perfection, 
which comprises actual divinity. Since, then, we cannot be- 
come infinite, we must remain limited in perfection ; that is to 
say, imperfect in some particular point. We may possess 
more or less imperfection ; but, after all, must bd ever imper- 
fect. It is desirable that we should always maik the precise 
point in which we are wanting, that penetration may declare, 
This is what we might still have, and what we do not 
possess " 

" Let us study creation in any way we may select ; — 
whether we descend to the minutest detail ; whether we ex- 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 75 

amine the anatomy of the most insignificant animal ; whether 
we closely inspect the smallest grain of corn sown in the 
ground, and the process by which this germ multiplies itself; 
whrt'ier we observe with attention the arrangement by which 
a rosebud expands under the rays of the sun, and closes 
towards the approach of night ; — we shall discover a more 
perfect plan of arrangement and industry than in all the works 
of art. That which we even call the art of man, is nothing 
more than a feeble imitation of the great art which we denom- 
inate the laws of nature, and which the impious have not 
Hushed tc call blind chance." 

"Must we, then, wonder if poets have animated the whole 
universe ; if they have given wings to the wind, and arrows 
to the sun ; if they have painted the great rivers which rush 
to precipitate themselves into the sea, and the trees, which, 
mounting towards heaven, conquer the rays of the sun by the 
depth of their shade ? So natural is it to man to feel that art 
with which all nature is replete, that these figurative expres- 
sions have become colloquial. Poetry merely attributes to 
inanimate things the intents of that Providence which guides 
and sets in motion all their operations. From the figurative 
language of poets, these ideas have been transfused into the 
theology of pagans, whose ministers of religion were their 
bards. These have imagined the existence of an art, a power, 
a wisdom which they called a nwnen (divinity), even in crea- 
tures the most devoid of intelligence. With them the rivers 
were gods, and the fountains naiads. The woods, the moun- 
tains, possessed their peculiar divinities. The flowers had 
Flora, and the fruits Pomona. The more we study nature 
with an unprejudiced mind, the more do we discover in all 
things a deep and inexhaustible wisdom, which is, as it were, 
the soul of the universe." 

"What follows from all this? The conclusion comes of 
itself. * If so much thought and penetration is required/ says 
Minutius Felix, ' only to examine the order and wonderful de- 
sign of the structure of the world, how much mightier must 
that wisdom have been which formed all ! If we admire 



76 WORKS OF FENELON. 

philosophers to such an extent for having merely discovered a 
small portion of the secrets of that power which created, must 
we not indeed be blind if we do not admire the Creator 
himself?'" 

" This is the grand object of the entire world in which God 
reflects himself, as it were, in a mirror before the human race. 
But these (I speak of philosophers) are lost in their own ideas, 
and all things for them are turned into vanity. From the 
effect of subtle reasoning, many of them have lost sight of h 
truth which simply and naturally, and unaided by philosophy, 
we may find in ourselves " 

" A traveller penetrating into the Sai's, the country of the 
ancient Thebes of a hundred gates, would find it now deserted, 
but would discover columns, pyramids, obelisks, and inscrip- 
tions in unknown characters. Is it likely that he would say, 
this place has never been inhabited by man ; human hands 
have never labored here ; it is chance which has formed these 
columns, which has placed them upon their pedestals, and 
which has crowned them with their capitals, all in such just 
proportion ; it is chance which has so firmly united the differ- 
ent pieces that form the pyramids ; it is chance which has 
hewn the obelisks from a single stone, and engraved upon 
them all these characters ? No ; would he not rather say with 
the most certain conviction of which the mind of man is capa- 
ble, — 'These magnificent ruins are the remains of the majestic 
architecture which flourished in ancient Egypt !' " 

" This is what simple reason would utter at first sight, and 
without feeling the necessity of any argument on the q estion. 
The same applies to the first glance thrown upon the universe. 
We may confuse ourselves with vain reasonings, and render 
obscure that which was as clear as possible before ; but the 
first simple impression is the true one. Such a work as the 
world cannot have formed itself; the bones, the tendons, the 
veins, the arteries, the nerves, and the muscles which compose 
the frame of man, dis*play more art and nicety of proportion, 
than all the architecture of ancient Greece or Egypt. The eye 
of the smallest animal surpasses in its structure the most per 



LIFE OF FENELO-N", BY LAMAETINE. 77 

feet human mechanism. If we found a watch amid the sands 
of Africa, we should not venture to declare seriously that 
chance had formed it in these deserts ; and yet men have felt 
no shame in saying that the bodies of animals, the mechan- 
ical art of which no watch can ever equal, are merely the re- 
sults of chance !...." 

" my God ! If so many do not behold thee in the sub- 
lime spectacle of creation which thou bestowest upon them, it 
is not because thou art far removed. Each of us can touch 
thee as it were, with the hands, but the senses and passions 
dwelling within us prevent all recognition of thee by the mind. 
Thus, Lord, thy light shineth in darkness, and the darkness is 
so profound that it comprehendeth it not. Thou displayest 
thyself in all things, and in all things heedless man neglects 
to perceive thee. All nature speaks of thee, and resounds thy 
hcly name ; but she speaks to those who do not hear, who are 
deaf because they confound themselves in their own mazes. 
Thou art about and within them, but they are as fugitives who 
fly from their own nature. They would find thee, oh, shining 
light ! oh, eternal beauty ! always old, and always new ; oh, 
fountain of pure delight ! oh, pure and blessed life of all those 
who truly live, if they would but seek thee within their own 
hearts. Yet the impious lose thee only by losing themselves. 
Alas, they are so absorbed in thy gifts, that that which ought 
to display, prevents their seeing the hand of the giver ; they 
live by thee, and live without thinking of thee ; or rather, die 
within reach of life, from imbibing no nourishment from life ; 
for what a death it is to be ignorant of thee ! . . . ." 

" I am convinced that there is of necessity in nature a Being 
who exists by himself ; and is consequently perfect. I know 
that I am not this being, because I am infinitely below infinite 
perfection. I feel that he is distinct from me, and that I live 
through him. Nevertheless, I discover that he has given me 
the true idea of himself in making me comprehend the exist- 
ence of an infinite perfection, in which I cannot be mistaken, 
for I hesitate at no bounded perfection that presents itself to 
me. Its limit compels me to reject it, and I say to it in my 



78 WORKS OF FENELON. 

heart, Thou art not my God ; thou art not infinitely perfect ; 
thou art not created by thyself. Such perfection as thou hast 
is measured ; there is a point beyond which thou hast nothing, 
and thou art but nothing." 

" The same applies not to God ; he is all ; he is, and can 
never cease to be ; he is, and for him there is neither degree 
nor measure ; he is, and nothing is but through him. Such is 
my belief. Since then I know that he is, there is nothing 
marvellous to me in the existence of such a being. All things 
around me are but through him ; but that which is wonderful 
and inconceivable, is that I should be able to comprehend him. 
It must be that he is not alone the immediate object of my 
thoughts, but as much their creator as he is the author of my 
entire being ; let him raise that which is finite to the contem- 
plation of the infinite." 

" This is the prodigy that I bear continually within me. I 
myself am a prodigy. Being nothing, at least possessing only 
a dependent, limited, and transient existence, I hold by the in- 
finite and immutable which I have conceived. This is where 
I am incapable of comprehending myself; I embrace all, and 
yet am nothing, a nothing which knows the infinite. Words 
fail me to express how much I at once admire and despise 
myself. God ! O Being beyond all beings ! Being before 
whom I am as if I were not ! Thou showest thyself unto me, 
and nothing which is not of thee can resemble thee. I behold 
thee ; it is thyself, and the light of thy countenance reaches 
me, and supports my heart while waiting for the great day of 
truth." 

" I demand wherefore has the Almighty given us this capa- 
city of knowing and loving him. It is manifestly the most 
precious of all his gifts. Has be accorded it to us blindly, 
without reason, purely by chance, not intending that we should 
use it ? He has bestowed upon us corporal eyes to behold the 
light of day. Can we believe that he has given us spiritual 
eyes, capable of seeing his eternal truth, and yet desire that 
we should remain in ignorance ? 1 confess we cannot infinitely 
know or love infinite perfection. Our loftiest recognition will 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 79 

ever remain infinitely imperfect compared with a Being of in- 
finite perfection." 

" In a word, intimately as we may be acquainted with God, 
we can never comprehend him ; but we know him sufficiently 
to recognize all things in which he is not, and to attribute to 
him those sublime perfections which are his without any fear 
of error. The universe holds no being that we can confound 
with God, and wc know how to represent his infinite character 
as one, and incommunicable. We must seek to know him 
distinctly, since the clearness of our idea of him must force us 
to prefer him to ourselves. An idea which compels us to 
dethione self must indeed be a powerful one — with blind man- 
kind, so prone to salf-idolatry. Never has any idea been so 
combated, never has any idea proved so victorious. Let us 
judge of its strength by the confession of weakness it tears 
from us " 

" We have preserved the book, which bears all the marks 
of divinity, since it is this volume which inculcates upon us 
the supreme love and knowledge of the true God. It is here 
that the Almighty speaks as God, when he says ' / am.' 1 No 
other book has painted God in a manner worthy of him : the 
deities of Homer are the opprobrium and derision of divinity. 
The volume which we hold in our hands, after having shown 
God to us such as he really is, inculcates the only faith worthy 
of him, It speaks not of appeasing him by the blood of vic- 
tims ; it tells us to love him better than ourselves ; we must 
love him for himself alone, and for his love ; we must renounce 
ourselves for him, and prefer his will to our own : his love will 
then create in us every virtue, and exclude each inclination to 
vice. This is such a renewal of the heart of man as man him- 
self could never have imagined. He could not have invented 
a religion which would lead him to abandon his own thoughts 
and his own will, to follow implicitly that of another. Even 
when this religion is offered to him by the most supreme 
authority, his mind cannot conceive it ; his inclination revolts, 
and his deepest feelings are agitated. We need not be sur- 
prised at such a consequence, since it is a faith which teaches 



80 WORKS OF FENELON. 

man to debase and crush the idol, self; to become a new 
creature, and to place God in the shrine which self has hitherto 
occupied, in order to make him the source and centre of our 
love " 

"God has united mankind in a society, where it becomes a 
general duty to love and succor each other, as the children ot 
one family, owning a common father. Every nation is merely 
a branch of this numerous family, which is spread over the 
whole surface of the globe. The love of this universal paren 
ought to reign sensibly, manifestly, and inviolably, throughout 
the entire community of his beloved children. None of these 
should ever fail to say to those who proceed from them, ; Know 
the Lord, who is thy Father.' " 

"These children of God are only placed in the world to 
acknowledge his perfection ; to fulfil his will ; and to commu- 
nicate to one another the recognition of his power and divine 
love." 

" There ought, then, to be amidst us a body devoted to the 
worship of God. This is true religion ; that all men should 
instruct, edify, and love one another, in order to love and 
serve the common Father. The essence of religion consists in 
no external ceremony, but in perfect knowledge of truth and 
surpassing love." 

" But merely to know God is not sufficient ; we must also 
demonstrate our knowledge, and in such a fashion that none 
of our brethren can be so unfortunate as to continue in igno- 
rance or forgetfulness. These visible signs of fjaith are merely 
the tokens by which men show their desire for mutual edifica- 
tion, and their wish of reawakening in each other the remem 
brance of the faith they bear within. Man, weak and incon 
siderate as he is, requires the constant renewal of such outward 
signs, to reveal to him the presence of the invisible God whom 
he ought to love " 

" This, then, is what is denominated religion. Sacred cere- 
monies, the public worship of God our Creator, are the means 
by which man, who cannot recognize and love the Almighty 
without making his love evident, seeks to display his adoration 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 81 

to an extent proportioned to the greatness of its object. He 
literally seeks to excite love by the signs of love itself." 

The question of the book of " The Maxims" was long debated 
at Rome. Fenelon sent one of his most fervent disciples, the 
Abbe de Chanterac, thither, to defend him against the accusa- 
tions of Paris. While the pontifical court deliberated with the 
slowness and prudence by which it was characterized, an excited 
controversy between Fenelon and Bossuet proceeded in France. 

" What can be thought of your intentions ?" said Fenelon to 
Bossuet. " / am that beloved disciple whom you cherish in your 
inmost heart; you go everywhere lamenting over me ; and while 
you compassionate, you destroy. What can be thought of 
these tears, which tend only to give greater force to your 
accusations? ..." 

" You compassionate me, and pervert the meaning and text 
of my words ?...." 

" Who was the originator of this scandal ? Who has written 
with such a bitter zeal ? You ; you, who no longer deserve 
that I should keep silence, while you bring against me the 
most atrocious accusations !" 

"Yes, I say it with grief," responded Bossuet, "you 

seek to refine upon holiness ; you hold nothing of value but 
the beauty of God by itself. You complain of the force of my 
expressions ? and they relate to new doctrines which you seek 
to introduce into the Church !...." 

" The worid calls my language exaggerated, bitter, severe, 
and bigoted, because I will not allow a dogma to establish 
itself quietly without unveiling its error ! Ought I to let it 
flow concealed, and, by such weakness, to relax the holy rigor 
of theological language ? .... If I have done aught beyond 
this, show it to me ! If I have done only this, God will be my 
protector against the weakness of the world and its hypocriti- 
cal complaisance." 

" You and I are both," replied Fenelon, " the objects of 

derision to the irreligious, and the cause of mourning to good 
men ! That all other men should act as fallible beings is noi 
surprising ; but that the ministers of Jesus Christ, the angels 

4* 



82 WORKS OF FENELON. 

■of the Church, should offer such a spectacle to a profane and 
unbelieving world, calls for tears of blood ! Too happy should 
we be if, instead of this war of doctrines, we had taught our 
catechism to the poor villagers of our dioceses, to lead them 
to the love and knowledge of God I" 

Bossuet having sent to Rome, upon his part, one of his 
nephews, the Abbe Bossuet, to solicit the thunders of the 
Vatican against Fenelon, this young priest, possessed of none 
of his uncle's qualifications, save his violence and love of rule, 
incessantly spread abroad in Rome the shadows of calumny 
against Fenelon and his doctrines. " Press matters forward," 
he wrote to his uncle ; " what do you wait for in order to de- 
prive Fenelon of the title of preceptor to the prince ? Make 
no delay in sending hither any one who can bear testimony to 
the attachment of M. de Cambray for Madame Guyon, for the 
father Lacombe, for their doctrines and their mode of life ; this 
is of the greatest importance !..... 

" I am enchanted with the little book" (a horrible calumny 
printed in Holland) ; "he has been named there, and well named; 
it has produced here a terrible effect to his disadvantage." 

This future Jansenist was carried by zeal of sect and family 
*>o far as to call Fenelon in his correspondence, "This ferocious 
beast /" 

During these negotiations, the calumnies circulated at Rome 
and Paris excited great animosity, and tended not only to cast 
a stain upon the conduct of Madame Guyon and the doctrines 
of the Archbishop of Cambray, but also upon his virtue. 

The mind of the monk Lacombe, inclosed in the dungeons 
of the Chateau de Lourdes, in the Pyrenees, became weakened 
and confused by the torture of solitude. He had latterly writ- 
ten several letters to the Bishop of Tarbes, in which he ap- 
peared to acknowledge a guilty connection with Madame 
Guyon. As soon as these confessions of delirium were known 
at Paris, the monk was transferred to the Chateau of Vin- 
cennes. There he wrote a letter to Madame Guyon, either 
under suggestion or compulsion, in which he exhorted her as 
his accomplice to confess their mutual errors, and to repent. 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 83 

The Cardinal de Noailles, Archbishop of Paris, read this 
letter to Madame Guyon, and also the sum of the confused 
avowals made by the monk. She suspected him of insanity, 
and said that the ravings of a prisoner were used against her 
and Fenelon. She at once defended herself from such horrible 
imputations. Her denial and indignation were looked upon as 
crimes. Transferred to the Bastille to undergo a stricter cap- 
tivity, she persisted in declaring her innocence, and continued 
to endure her punishment. In the mean time, her accusers 
hastened to forward these infamous letters to Rome, in order 
to tarnish the fame of Fenelon, on whose ruin they were de- 
termined. 

The Cardinal de Noailles, Bossuet, Madame de Maintenorr 
herself, upon the evidence of these maniacal ravings, doubted 
no longer the guilt of the monk and Madame Guyon. " These 
letters," wrote the Abbe Bossuet, to his uncle, "make more 
impression than twenty theological demonstrations ; these are 
the arguments that we required." The monk's insanity soon 
transpired ; he was thrown into a lunatic asylum, where he 
died in delirium. They were forced to acknowledge that Fe- 
nelon had never seen the monk, nor entered into any corre- 
spondence with him. 

They revenged this disappointment to their animosity by 
banishing all Fenelon's friends from the court of the Duke of 
Burgundy. Bossuet published a discourse on " Quietism," in 
which all his anger and his condemnation of their doctrines 
assumed a grave tone towards the sectarians themselves. Fe- 
nelon sought to keep silence, fearful of drawing the Duke de 
Beauvillier into his own ruin, who was now his only friend at- 
tached to the person of his pupil. The arguments of his rep- 
resentative at Rome at length induced him to reply, and his 
answer changed and melted all hearts. 

The contrast of the stern severity of Bossuet to the patient 
forbearance of the accused, became evident to the eyes of all. 
" Can you compare," exclaimed Fenelon, at the close of his 
reply, " your proceedings to mine % You publish my letters 
only to defame me. I publish yours to show that vou were 



84 WORKS OF FENELON 

my consecrator. You violate the secrets of my most private 
correspondence only to cause my destruction ! I make use of 
yours (but only after you have shown mine), and then not to 
accuse you, but to vindicate my oppressed innocence ! 

" These letters of mine which you have brought forward, 
contain, next to confession, the greatest secrets of my life, and 
render me according to your definition, the Montanus of a new 
Priscilla. 

" Ah ! why does such glory as yours descend to defame me ? 
Who can refrain from being astonished that genius and elo- 
quence are so far misled as to compare an innocent, legitimate, 
and necessary defence, to such an odious revelation of the se- 
crets of a friend ?" 

" We find with grief," says the contemporary D'Aguesseau, 
"that one of these two great opponents has spoken falsely ; 
and it is certain that Fenelon knew, at least, how to gain in 
the public estimation the advantage of consistency." 
. " Who will deny his ability ?" exclaimed Bossuet, while 
reading this defence ; " he has enough to alarm any one ! 
his misfortune is being implicated in a cause calling for so 
much !" 

Fenelon soon showed in this crisis of his life, that his soul 
was superior to his genius. 

But the condemnation of the " Book of Maxims" did not 
arrive ; Rome hesitated. Pope Innocent the Twelfth faintly 
concealed his secret conviction of the innocence of Fenelon, 
of the purity of his manners, and the charm of his virtue. 
The Cardinals who were appointed to examine his book were 
half in favor and half against it. Bossuet and Louis the 
Fourteenth interfered, and dictated the order of suppression in 
an imperative letter to the sovereign pontiff. 

" I cannot leam, without grief," said the king to the Pope, 
9 that this necessary judgment should be retarded by the 
machinations of those whose interest it is to suspend it. Quiet 
can only be obtained by a clear, plain decision, which admits 
of no ambiguous interpretation, and which will strike at the 
root of the evil. I demand this judgment for your own credit, 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMAKTINE. 85 

added to those great motives which ought to induce you to 
show that consideration which I beseech you to accord to my 
request," <fcc, &c. 

While this objurgation was dispatched to the Pope, accom- 
panied by a severe reprimand to the king's ambassador for his 
weakness, Louis the Fourteenth forestalled the condemnation 
by ordering the list of the officers of the household of the 
Duke of Burgundy to be brought to him, and with his own 
hand struck off the name of Fenelon from the office of pre- 
ceptor, deprived him of his salary, and shut up his apartment 
at Versailles. 

Thus prevented from exercising his office as teacher, and 
from entering the palace, Fenelon quickly discovered that the ; 
sentence of the Church would strike him even in his pontifical 
character. "Lord, save us, or we perish!" wrote his faithful, 
friend, the Abbe of Chanterac from Rome, " though our suf- 
ferings will be blest if they serve to defend the true love of 
God." " And I rejoice to think that it will preserve our union, 
throughout time and eternity. Ah ! how often have I ex- 
claimed in these troubled and gloomy days, ' Let us go and die 
with him /' " 

" Yes, let us die in our innocence," replied Fenelon. " If God 
desires my services no longer in my ministry, I shall think of 
nothing for the rest of my life but my own love for him, as I 
can no longer impress it on the minds of others." 

At the same time, the death of Madame Guyon in the Bas- 
tille was announced to him. It was a false report, but Fenelon 
believed it to be true. " They have just told me," wrote he, 
" that Madame Guyon has died in her captivity. I must say 
now after her death what I have often repeated during her 
life, that I knew nothing of her but what was in the highest; 
degree edifying. Were she an incarnate angel of darkness, i- 
can only speak of her as I found her on earth. It would be., 
an act of horrible cowardice to do otherwise for the sake of 
delivering myself from personal apprehension. I have nothing 
to conceal for her sake : truth alone restrains me." 

At length, the condemnation obtained with so much trouble 



86 WORKS OF FENELON. 

from the mild justice of Innocent the Twelfth arrived in Paris, 
accompanied by a shout of joy from the enemies of Fenelon at 
Rome. "We send you the skin of the lion we have had 
much trouble in catching," wrote they, "and who has for 
many months astonished the world by his roaring." 

At the moment when Fenelon received at Cambray the first 
news of his condemnation, he was about to ascend his pulpit 
and address the people on a sacred subject, upon which lor 
some days he had been meditating. He had not time to 
exchange a syllable with his brother, who had been the bearer 
of the information, that he might soften this heavy blow. 
Those who were present could not observe that he either col- 
ored or grew pale at the fatal intelligence. He knelt for a 
moment with his face buried in his hands, that he might 
change the subject of his discourse ; and rising with his usual 
calm inspiration, he spoke with impressive fervor upon the 
unreserved submission due under all conditions of life to the 
legitimate authority of superiors. 

The report of his condemnation spreading from mouth to 
mouth in whispers throughout the cathedral, caused all to fix 
their eyes upon him, and his resignation drew tears from 
many. The whole flock appeared to surfer with their pastor. 
He alone felt himself sustained by the hand that had just 
struck him, for his grief was not caused by pride, but by the 
uncertainty of his conscience. The authority which he recog- 
nized, in freeing him from this doubt, at the same time released 
him from his mental agony. lie had submitted his conscience 
to the Church ; she had pronounced her sentence; he believed 

to be the voice of heaven, and submitted to the decision. 

" The supreme authority has eased my conscience," wrote 
he, on the evening of the same day. " There remains nothing 
for me now but to submit in silence, and to bear my humilia- 
tion without a murmur. Dare I tell you that it is a state 
which carries with it consolation to an upright man who cares 
not for the world ? The humiliation is without doubt most 
painful, but the least resistance would cost my heart much 
more." 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTEtfE. 87 

The next day he published a declaration to his diocesans, in 
which he accused himself of error in his book of " Maxims of 
the Saints/' "We shall console ourselves," said he in this, 
avowal, the most Christian act of his life, " for our mortifica- 
tion, provided that the minister of the word sent by God for 
your edification be not weakened, and that the humiliation of 
the pastor may increase the grace and fidelity of his flock.'* 

This great action and these beautiful words were interpreted 
by the enemies of the living Fenelon as a sacrifice of his pride 
as a bishop to the still greater pride of the courtier. They> 
saw in it an artful desire to raise a pretext by which his rivals 
might lose favor, an advance towards reconciliation at the 
expense of his conscience, with Louis the Fourteenth, a base 
and pretended disavowal of those religious opinions which he 
still held intact in his soul, and which he only condemned from 
policy. Impartial judgment must free his memory from these 
calumnies. If Fenelon had possessed sufficient worldly ambi* 
tion and dissimulation to disavow an opinion displeasing to the 
king and Court, he would also have had enough of the "same 
qualities to prevent his expressing his views openly before 
them, and thus risking a disgrace voluntarily incurred. He 
had been out of favor for several years, therefore it is not likely 
that at the end of his martyrdom he would have renounced 
his faith. The truth is, that he # suffered for his transcendental 
philosophy and ethereal piety, as long as it was only reprobated 
by the king and the w T orld ; but the instant that religious 
authority had pronounced its opinion, he sacrificed to duty that 
which he had refused to immolate to ambition. 

Undoubtedly the official sentence of Rome did not change 
in his inmost heart his sublime convictions of the disinterested 
and absolute love of God. He did not believe he was mistaken 
in what he had felt, but thought he might have gone too far in 
expressing it ; above all, he imagined that the Church wished 
to impose silence with regard to those subtilties which might 
trouble the minds of the people, and interfere with ecclesiasti- 
cal government ; and he submitted in good faith, humility, and 
silence. 



88 WORKS OF FENELON. 

This humility and silence, which instructed the world, in- 
creased the irritation of his enemies. They wished to over- 
throw the author of a heresy, but in Fenelon they found only 
a victim to admire. 

" It is astonishing," exclaimed Bossuet, himself, " that Fene- 
lon, who is so keenly alive to his humiliation, should be insen- 
sible to his error. He wishes every thing to be forgotten except 
that which redounds to his honor. All this is like a man who 
seeks to place himself under the shelter of Rome, without per- 
ceiving the advantage." 

The genius of this great man only served in this instance to 
illustrate his hatred, which he carried with him to the grave. 
His death speedily succeeded his triumph. " I have wept be- 
fore God and prayed for this old instructor of my youth," 
wrote Fenelon, to a friend, when he heard of this event, " but 
it is not true that I celebrated his obsequies in my cathedral 
and preached his funeral sermon. You know that such affec- 
tation is foreign to my nature." 

Bossuet's persecution of this most gentle of disciples has 
stained his memory. Nothing goes unpunished in this world, 
not even the weaknesses of genius. 

The zealous ardor of the pontiff for the unity of faith cannot 
excuse the cruelty of the polemical controversialist. Bossuet 
was a prophet of the Old Testament ; Fenelon an apostle of 
the Evangel ; — the one an embodiment of terror, the other an 
emblem of charity. All admire Bossuet as a writer, but who 
would wish to resemble him as a man ? It becomes the expi- 
ation of those who know not how to love, that their memory 
is not regarded with affection. 

Madame Guyon, the cause of all these troubles, was liber- 
ated from Vincennes after the death of Bossuet, and resided 
in exile in Lorraine with one of her daughters. She died there 
after many years, still celebrated for that unchanging piety and 
virtue which justified the esteem of Fenelon. 

All now appeared tranquil, and promised to Fenelon a 
speedy return to the charge of his pupil, the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, whom the lapse of years had brought nearer to the 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMAKTTNE. 89 

throne, when the treachery of a copyist who gave to the 
printers in Holland a manuscript of Teleraachus, plunged the 
author once more and forever into disgrace at Court, and ex- 
cited anew the anger of the king. Telemachus, thus pirated, 
burst forth like a revelation, and spread with the rapidity of 
fire. The times called for it ; the vicissitudes of glory and 
tyranny, the servitude and misfortunes of the nation at the 
end of the wars of Louis the Fourteenth, had impressed the 
whole mind of Europe with a sort of presentiment of this 
book. It contained the vengeance of the people, a lesson to 
kings, the inauguration of philosophy and religion into politics. 
A brilliant and harmonious poetry served as the organ of truth 
as well as fiction. 

All responded to the gentle voice of a legislative and poeti- 
cal pontiff, who presented himself to instruct, console, and 
charm the world. The presses of Holland, Belgium, Germany, 
France, and England, could not issue enough copies of Telem- 
achus to satisfy the avidity of its readers. It became in a few 
months the gospel of modern imagination ; a classic in its 
birth. 

The reputation of this great work reached Louis the Four- 
teenth. His courtiers, in pointing out to him his likeness, in 
tiie feeble and hard-hearted Idomeneus, the scourge of his peo- 
ple, said, " He who has thus painted your majesty's portrait, 
must be your enemy." They saw in the recitals and theories 
of paganism an injurious satire upon monarchs and govern- 
ment. Public malignity delighted to find in all the personages 
of which Fenelon's pictures were composed, resemblances to 
the king, the princes, the ministers, and favorites of both 
sexes. These portraits, conceived and executed in the palace 
of /ersaillrs, at a time when Fenelon enjoyed all the confi- 
dence that the king placed in the preceptor of his heir, ap- 
peared as a flagrant instance of domestic treason. 

The refined dreams of Fenelon, contrasted with the sombre 
realities of the Court, and the sadness of a reign in its decline, 
rose like so many accusations against the representative of 
royalty. Temerity and black ingratitude were attributed to 



90 WORKS OF FENELOX. 

the mind of a poet, whose only fault amounted to Ins having 
indulged in creations of the fancy more surpassingly beautiful 
than those of nature herself. The instinctive antipathy of 
Louis the Fourteenth to Fenelon originated in indignation and 
resentment. When we compare the reign and the poem, we 
can scarcely feel surprised^ or accuse #the king of injustice. 
Such a book, composed under the shadow cf the palace, and 
published without the knowledge of the pri-i.ce, appeared in 
truth a most outrageous satire, as well as a cruel violation of 
the intimate confidence and majesty of the sovereign. The 
mind ot Feneion, in writing it, had never conceived the sinis- 
ter allusions and ungrateful accusations which were attributed 
to him. lie had innocently surrendered himself to his pure 
imagination, which colored every thing up to the level of his 
own moral perfection, his candor and love of human nature. 
He wished to prepare in silence, for the instruction of his royal 
charge, a model of a monarch, and of legislative government. 
It was neither his intention nor his fault that the resplendent 
virtue which shone forth in his speakers and personages should 
throw a deeper shadow upon the arbitrary, haughty, and per- 
secuting reign of Louis the Fourteenth. The dread even of 
these remarks had made him conceal his poem, as a mysterious 
secret between himself and his pupil. He had no desire to 
make it the vehicle of personal fame ; he reserved it far the 
instruction and glory of a future sovereign. He never sought 
literary publicity for his writings ; they were intended f r the 
contracted privacy of friendship or religion, and their own 
brilliancy was the cause of their more extensive circulation. 

It was in this view that he had composed Telemachus. 
This poem, which he destined not to see the light until after 
the death of Louis the Fourteenth, he had writt p with his 
own hand in his private apartments, and afterwards had it 
copied by a person on whose fidelity he thought he could rely. 
He intended it as a legacy to his family, that they might make 
such use of it after his death as the times admitted. In his 
own private feeling, the publication of Telemachus caused him 
as much trouble as grief. He saw in it his certain condemna- 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 91 

tion to a perpetual exile, and beheld himself in the situation 
of a public enemy in a court which would never forgive him. 

He was not mistaken. The universal resentment against 
him was immediate. The Court had an intuitive feeling of 
the harm which this book would do them in the eyes of pos- 
terity, and unskilfully disguised their terrors under the sem- 
blance of disdain. 

" Fenelon's book," said Bossuet, who was still alive at the 
time of its first reputation, " is a romance. Opinions are 
divided on the subject ; the cabal admire it, but the rest of 
the world consider it scarcely serious enough to be worthy of 
a clergyman." 

" 1 have net ^*e le^.st e^osity to read Telemachus," writes 
Madame de iA^mtenoTi. The king, who seldom read any 
thing, disdained io peiuse it. The Court thought to smother 
it in sik?.-:e. It was agreed at Versailles that they should not 
even mention the name before the king, and they believed 
the L ook forgotten by the world, because they chose to forget 
it tliemselves. 

Sixteen years later, when Telemachus, printed in every form, 
and translated in every language, inundated all Europe, the 
orators of the French Academy, in speaking of the literary 
works of their time, were silent upon this, which held posses- 
sion of the age, and will descend to all posterity. 

The anger of the Court deeply grieved the Duke of Bur- 
gundy, whom separation, injustice, and adversity had more 
strongly than ever attached to his preceptor. To escape the 
iealous tyranny of his grandfather, he was obliged to make a 
secret of his attachment to Fenelon, and to conceal as a State 
crime his correspondence with his friend. 

" At last," wrote the young prince, " I find an opportunity 
of breaking the silence which I have been forced to maintain 
for four years. I have suffered many evils, but one of the 
greatest was the not being able to tell you what I felt for you 
during this long interval, and how much my love has increased, 
instead of being diminished, by your misfortunes. I reflect 
with delight upon the time when I shall see you again, but 1 



92 WORKS OF FENELON. 

fear that period is still far distant. ... I continue to study 
alone, and I am fonder of reading than ever. Nothing inter- 
ests me more than philosophy and ethics, and I am continually 
practising myself in those exercises. I have written several 
little essays, which I should like to send to you to correct. . . . 
I will not tell you in this, how angry I am at all that they have 
done to you, but we must submit for the present. . . . Do not 
show this letter to any person whatever, except only to the 
Abbe de Langeron, for I can depend upon his secrecy ; and do 
not answer it " 

Fenelon replied from time to time by letters written at long 
intervals, containing the advice of a man of piety and a states- 
man, and filled with expressions of paternal tenderness. 

" I speak to you only of God and yourself," wrote he ; " you 
must not think of me. Heaven be praise J, my mind is at 
peace; my most severe cross is not beholding ycu ; but I bear 
you with me before God in a more intimate form than that of 
the senses. I would give a thousand lives as a drop of water, 
to see you all that Heaven intended you to be. Amen. 
Amen." 

The Duke of Burgundy, in going to take command of the 
army in Flanders, during the campaign of 1708, passed by 
Cambray. 

" The king was less concerned," says St. Simon, " with the 
equipment of his grandson, than with the necessity of his pass- 
ing near Cambray, which place he could not avoid without an 
appearance of studied intention. He was strictly forbidden, 
not only to sleep there, but even to stop and dine ; and to 
avoid the chance of a private interview with the archbishop, 
the king further commanded him not to leave his carriage. 
Saumery was instructed to see this order strictly complied 
with ; he acquitted himself like an Argus, with an air of 
authority that scandalized everybody. The archbishop was 
waiting to receive them at the post-house, and approached his 
pupil's carriage as soon as it arrived ; but Saumery, who had 
just alighted, and informed him of the king's orders, stationed 
himself at his elbow. The crowd surrounding the young prince 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 93 

were moved at the transports of joy which escaped him, in 
spite of all restraint, when he beheld his preceptor. He em- 
braced him repeatedly, and the warmth of the glances which 
he darted into the eyes of the archbishop, conveyed all that 
the king had interdicted, and expressed an eloquence which 
none could behold without emotion. The prince only stopped 
to change horses, but without hurry ; then followed fresh em- 
braces, and they parted. The scene had been too public, and 
lad excited too much curiosity not to be reported on all sides. 
As the king had been strictly obeyed, he could not find fault 
with what had been so little concealed from those who pressed 
around, or with the looks that were exchanged between the 
prince and the archbishop. The Court thought mucli of this, 
and the army still more. The influence which, notwithstand- 
ing his disgrace, the archbishop exercised in his own diocese, 
and even in the Netherlands, communicated itself to the troops, 
and those who thought of the future, from that time forth 
passed more willingly by Cambray, in their journeys to and 
fro from Flanders, than by any other route." 

It w T as at Cambray, during those sad years in which confed- 
erated Europe made Louis the Fourteenth atone for the 
splendor of his government, the long prosperity, and exalted 
glory of his entire reign, that we must chiefly admire Fenelon. 
In recurring to the past, posterity meets with nothing more 
beautiful, more simple, more devoted, more wise, more respect- 
able, or more respected, than this supremely amiable man, 
devoting himself to the duties of his mission. As priest, bishop, 
administrator for the poor, friend, citizen, and man, all the 
noble ccmiments which adorn human nature shone forth, col- 
lected with remarkable brilliancy in this single individual. 
Above all, throughout the vicissitudes of a complicated and 
unfortunate war, of which his diocese was the theatre and the 
victim, he appeaud as the most touching personification of 
charity. The true qualities of Christian love, called forth each 
day by the miseries which increased them as they themselves 
augmented, caused the name, and above all, the presence, of 
Fenelon to be blessed by many voices. In his example, they 



94: WORKS OF FENELON. 

found a resource which assisted them to brave the common 
calamity with patience and resignation. Imagination became 
excited, and added a thousand particulars to the truths which 
were so naturally combined with it, that they only appeared 
to embellish facts to paint them with more fidelit} 7 . A kind of 
legend thus grew beneath the steps of the "good archbishop" 
and followed him like the sweet odor of his virtues. These 
true or exaggerated recitals of charity are commemorated in 
all the records of the time. 

During the winter and scarcity of 1709, this charity way 
exercised with the most active zeal, and under the greatest 
variety of forms, in order to ameliorate the triple trials of war, 
cold, and famine. Disasters accumulated. The strong places, 
which had been fortified with so much care by the prudence 
of the king, fell into the enemy's power. The troops, badly 
paid, forgot their discipline and obedience, as they had also 
forgotten the way to victory. The treasury was empty. The 
inexhaustible imagination of the exchequer was thoroughly 
worn out, and knew not upon what pretext, or by what mer- 
cenary bait, to extract another crown from the country. The 
severity of the weather had everywhere rendered the grain 
which had been sown unproductive. During the winter, men 
expired of cold ; and when the summer came, they might be 
seen lying dead of starvation, with a bunch of withered herbs 
in their mouths. In numerous towns and provinces, seditions 
unexpectedly burst upon the government, which found its 
resources everywhere exhausted. Executions followed on the 
mad extravagances of misery. Paace, which he had never 
known how to preserve, now fled from the humble solicitations 
of Louis the Fourteenth. The ambition of Prince Eugene and 
the avarice of Marlborough prolonged the war, which was 
profitable to them, and to their glory. After Hcchstedt and 
Ramillies, Oudenarde, Lille, and Malplaquct, appeared to toll 
the funeral knell of France. She retained for a long time the 
cruel impression, and shudders still at the remembrance of 
that year when God appeared to punish men for their discord, 
in accumulating with a severe hand the full measure of 



LIFE OF TTKEL0N, BY LAMARTINE. 95 

those evils which tb*>y had commenced by heaping on them- 
selves. 

But above this sad recollection, and inseparably connected 
with it, there still rises the remembrance of one of those great 
men, accorded as an example and consolation under the heavi- 
est blows which it pleases the Divine Providence to dispense — 
an immutable law established by historical evidence. To alle- 
viate anarchy, spring up virtuous patriots ; to soothe calamities, 
heroes of charity ; to tern]: 3? the massacre of the Indians, there 
was Las Casas; to assume the fury of the religious wars, 
L'Hopital ; amid the vices of his times, St. Vincent de Paul ; 
at Milan, Charles Borromeus; j.t MarseiLes, Belzunce; and to 
balance against the executioners during the reign of terror, 
there were the victims. Flanders, and the year 1709, pos- 
sessed Fenelon. In these redeeming signs may be recognized 
the hand which only chastises to instruct. 

The episcopal palace of Cambray was transformed into the 
common asylum of the unfortunate. When it became too 
small to contain them, Fenelon opened his seminary, and hired 
several houses in the town. The inhabitants of entire villages, 
which had been ravaged by the soldiers, took refuge under his 
protection. These poor people were received like children; 
and those who had suffered most, were treated with the first 
and greatest care. On the other hand, generals, officers, and 
soldiers, sick or wounded, were brought to this untiring char- 
ity, which never paused to count the numbers to be relieved. 
Let us give attention to what St. Simon says upon this subject. 
He praises rarely, and then against his will ; but when he 
writes of Fenelon, he is forced to wire away the gall from his 
pen : 

" His open house and table had the appearance of those ol 
a governor of Flanders, and of an episcopal palace, combined. 
There were constantly many renowned officers, and distin- 
guished soldiers, sick, wounded, or in good health, living with 
him. All expenses were defrayed by him, and they were 
served equally, as if there was only one honored guest to attend 
upon. He himself was usually present at all the medical and 



96 WORKS OF FENET.ON 

surgical consultations. He also exercised towards the sick and 
wounded, the functions of the most charitable pastor; and 
often went to the houses and hospitals in which the soldiers 
were lodged, to fulfil the same office. All these duties were 
performed without neglecting any thing, without any interested 
motive, and always with an open hand. A liberality well 
understood, a magnificence which never insulted, was showered 
alike on officers and men ; and although he exercised this 
unbounded hospitality, his table, furniture, and equipages, were 
within the limits of his station. He gave in secret, with equal 
eagerness and modesty, all the assistance that could be con- 
cealed, and which v/as incalculable. He used such considera- 
tion towards others, as to make those on whom he conferred 
favors believe that he was the obliged party; and he showed a 
common politeness to all, so carefully modified that it appeared 
to each like a mark of personal consideration. In all things 
he acted with that nice delicacy in which he so singularly 
excelled. He was beloved by every one. Admiration and 
devotion filled the hearts of all the inhabitants of the Nether- 
lands, throughout every district, who looked up to him as an 
object of universal love and veneration." 

Behold, then, Ftnelon in his true vocation. He devoted 
himself to the unfortunate. He did better than merely suc- 
cor and nxrse them; he lived with them entirely. In his 
own house, in the hospitals, in the town, he was to be seen 
wherever his presence was necessary. No miseries disgusted 
him, no infectious diseases deterred him from the motive which 
inspired him with the most earnest desire to soothe those who 
suffered ; he bestowed what was better than alms or medi- 
cine — a look, a gentU word, a sigh, a tear. He thought 01 
all, he foresaw all, he descended to the most minute details. 
Nothing appeared to him beneath his care, and nothing was 
beyond his ability to accomplish. This was only the natural 
exercise of his heart. He kept his mind at liberty, he prayed, 
he meditated like a monk in the cloister. As a man who 
sought to occupy his leisure hours, he continued an extensive 
correspondence, kind, useful, serious, and full of information, 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 97 

with the most distinguished men, and often upon the most 
intricate and arduous questions. Theologian and bishop, he 
composed several works, instructions, and essays upon difficult 
subjects, which at the moment occupied the Church of France 
His powers and resources appeared exhaustless, as if he had 
only to draw them from the depths of his own soul. Rigid 
and sparing in his habits, he was accustomed to eat alone, and 
live entirely upon vegetables. He did not even partake of the 
repast which he provided for his guests, and allowed himself 
nothing that he could spare for the benefit of others. 

The veneration which his name inspired enabled him to 
cross the enemies' lines, through which our arms had been 
unable to force a passage. Alone and unprotected, he could 
traverse his entire diocese. The most disorderly of all the 
troops, the Imperial hussars, might be seen attending him as a 
voluntary escort in his pastoral journeys* The estates which 
belonged to him, respected by the orders of Eugene and Marl- 
borough, became a refuge for the peasants of the neighbor- 
hood, who, at the approach of the soldiers, ran there with their 
families, and all that they could carry. Often, the better to 
protect their grain, woods, and fields from marauders, the gen- 
erous enemy would place a guard over them. 

On one occasion, carts laden with corn arrived in the square 
at Cambray, under the escort of some of Marlborough's soldiers. 
Fearing that the scarcity of provisions would not permit this 
supply to remain long in security in the little town of Cateau 
Cambresis, where Ftnelon had placed it, the English general 
caused it to be brought into the French city, within view of 
his own camp. It is the privilege of great minds to elevate 
others to their own standard, and to inspire as well as perform 
noble actions. The sanctity of the archbishop conferred re- 
flected honor even on the enemies of his country, from the 
respect with which it inspired them for his character. 

The devotion of Fenelon was not simply confined to private 
actions. He even assumed the noble part of a public deliverer, 
and brought succor to his country. The consequences of the 
admiration which he inspired, were useful to France. At the 

Vol. I.— 5 



98 WORKS OF FENELON. 

moment when our army, without food, was nearly annihilated 
by hunger, he had the glory (and never was there a purer or 
more personal renown) of saving it. He opened his store- 
houses to the ministers of war and finance ; and when the 
comptroller-general asked him to name the price of the corn 
which necessity had rendered so valuable, he replied, " I have 
given it up to you : order as much as you please ; it is all 
yours." • 

At the same time, he wrote thus to the Duke de Chevreuse : 
" If money is wanting for pressing emergencies, I offer my ser- 
vice of plate, and any thing else that I possess, and also the 
small quantity of corn which still remains. I wish to serve my 
country with my money and my blood; and not simply to 
make myself popular at Court." 

And when no sacrifice or effort could any longer supply the 
most urgent necessities of the army and inhabitants of Flanders, 
he addressed the following letter to the commissioner-general, 
in which he paints to the life the miseries against which he was 
struggling : 

" I can no longer delay that which our desolated city and 
country compel me to communicate. It is to beg you instantly 
to have the kindness to procure us the succor which you have 
long promised in the king's name. This district and town 
have had no other resource for the entire year than the pro- 
duce of the oat crops, the corn having entirely failed. Con- 
sider then, sir, that the armies, which are almost at our doors, 
and who can only subsist upon what is left, will consume a 
great portion of the oats still in the fields : and much more 
will be destroyed by waste and plunder than from regular 

foraging Wheat is no longer to be procured ; it has 

risen to such an enormous price that even the most industrious 
families cannot afford to buy it, and it is, moreover, extremely 
scarce. We have no barley ; and the little oats we have left 
will not suffice for the men and horses alone. The people 
must perish ; and a contagion is to be dreaded, which may 

extend from hence to Paris Further, you understand, 

sir, better than anybody, that if the people can neither plant 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 99 

nor live, your troops will not be able to exist upon a frontier 
whose inhabitants are unable to furnish them with the com- 
monest necessaries. You see also that it will be impossible to 
carry on the war next year in a ruined country. That in which 
we now are has almost fallen into this last extremity ; we can 
no longer assist our poor, for the rich are themselves reduced 
to poverty. You have done me the honor to inform me that 
the king will have the goodness to send into this district a large 
supply of grain, that is to say, barley and oats. There are no 
other means of preserving a frontier so close to Paris and so 
important to France. I should consider that I failed in my 
duty to God and the king, did I not represent our condition to 
you without disguise. We expect every thing from the com- 
passion of his Majesty towards these people, who will not show 
him less affection and fidelity than his subjects of the ancient 
kingdom " 

Meanwhile the king was growing old, and a sudden illness 
carried off the father of the Duke of Burgundy, the son of 
Louis the Fourteenth, who would have succeeded to the throne 
before the pupil of Fenelon. The courtiers, who now saw no 
step between the monarchy and the young duke, began to 
turn their eyes towards the rising sun, and once more to per- 
ceive Fenelon in the background. The picture that the court 
lynx, St. Simon, has drawn of the death of the great dauphin, 
father of the Duke of Burgundy, exposes to the light of truth 
the darkest hearts. Never has the veil of interest, egotism, 
simulated grief, secret joy, fluctuating hope, hourly changing 
from the throne to the tomb, been so pitilessly drawn aside by 
the pen of a great satirist. 

" While Meudon was overwhelmed with despair, Versailles 
remained tranquil and unsuspecting. Supper was over ; some 
hours after, the company had separated, and I was conversing 
with Madame de St. Simon, who was preparing to retire to 
rest, when a valet de chambre of the Duchess de Berri entered 
in consternation, and told us that bad news had arrived from 
Meudon. I then immediately ran to the Duchess de Berri's 
apartments. Nobody was there. They were all gone to the 



100 WORKS OF FENELON. 

house of the Duchess of Burgundy, whither I followed imme- 
diately. 

" I there found all Versailles either already assembled, or 
arriving. The ladies in dishabille, the greater number as they 
had been preparing for bed, the doors all open, and every thing 
in confusion. I learnt that Monseigneur, the dauphin, had 
received extreme unction, that he knew nobody, and that his 
condition was hopeless. The king had sent to inform the 
Duchess of Burgundy that he was going to Marly, and that 
she was to meet him in the avenue between the two stables, 
that she might see him as he passed. 

" This assembly attracted all the attention that was not oc- 
cupied by the various emotions of my soul, and by what at the 
instant presented itself to my imagination. The two princes 
and princesses were in a small cabinet in the space between the 
bed and the wall. The night toilet was usually held in the 
chamber of the Duchess of Burgundy, which wg,s now filled 
by the whole Court in a state of utter bewilderment. She 
went backwards and forwards from the closet to the bedroom, 
waiting for the moment when she was to meet the king. She 
maintained her usual graceful demeanor, but filled with a sor- 
row and compassion that each individual present thought was 
caused by their own trouble. She spoke a few words to every 
one in passing to and fro. All had most expressive counte- 
nances, for even eyes that had never before beheld the Court 
could easily distinguish the eager expectations depicted on 
some features, from the inanition of those who looked for noth- 
ing. These latter remained tranquil, but the former were 
obliged to hide, under the appearance of excessive grief, the 
overflowing of their joy. 

" My first impulse was to make many inquiries, and not to 
believe readily what I either saw or heard ; my next, to think 
that there was not much cause for such great alarm ; and 
finally, to consider within myself that misfortune is the com- 
mon lot of all mankind, and that I too should some day find 
myself at the gates of death. A feeling of joy, however, 
crossed these momentary impressions of religion and human- 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 101 

ity, by which I was trying to recall myself. My own personal 
deliverance appeared to me so great and unexpected, that I 
considered it even a more perfect evidence than truth itself, 
that the State would be the gainer by this great loss. In the 
midst of these reflections, I could not help entertaining, in 
spite of myself, a fear that the sick man might yet recover, 
and I felt greatly ashamed of the feeling. 

" Although thus apparently plunged in thought, I did not 
fail to remark to Madame de St. Simon, that it was fortunate 
she had come ; and to cast peering but furtive glances upon 
every face, demeanor, and movement, to satisfy my curiosity ; 
to feed the opinion that I had formed of each individual, 
which had never yet deceived me ; and to draw just conjec- 
tures of the truth from those first impulses which people can 
so seldom master, and which, to those who know the machin- 
ery and the puppets, are sure indications of sentiments and 
feelings which are almost imperceptible in moments of greater 
self-possession. 

" I saw the Duchess of Orleans arrive, but her composed 
ard majestic countenance told nothing. Some moments after, 
the Duke of Burgundy passed with a troubled countenance, 
full of care, but the glance which I quickly threw towards 
him showed me nothing tender in his expression. I only be- 
held the preoccupation of an absorbed mind. 

" The valets and waiting-women were already weeping with 
indiscreet violence, and their grief showed fully the loss which 
their class were about to sustain. It was nearly half-past 
twelve when news arrived of the king, and I immediately saw 
the Duchess of Burgundy leave the little cabinet with the 
duke, whose countenance appeared more moved than when I 
saw him at first, and who quickly re-entered the closet. The 
princess, taking from her toilet-table her scarf and head-dress, 
deliberately crossed the apartment, her eyes scarcely moistened, 
but her real feelings betrayed by stealthy looks cast here and 
there as she passed along.- Followed by her ladies alone, she 
reached her carriage by the grand staircase. 

" I took advantage of her leaving the chamber to seek the 



1C2 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Duchess of Orleans, whom I was anxious to see. I ascertained 
that she was in the apartments of Madame ; and proceeding 
through the other rooms, I found the duchess surrounded by 
five or six of her familiar ladies. I felt impatient at the pres- 
ence of so large a company. The duchess, who was not less 
ar.noyed at it, took a light and went to the back of her room. 
I then proceeded to say a word or two privately to the Duch- 
ess de Villeroy. She and I held the same opinions on the 
present event. She pushed me away, and whispered to me in 
a low voice to restrain myself. I was forced to be silent, amid 
the complaints and surprise of the ladies, when the Duke of 
Orleans appeared at the door of the cabinet and called me. 

" I followed him into an interior apartment, situated below 
upon the gallery ; he, ready to faint, and I, with my tegs trem- 
bling under me, at all that was passing before my eyes and in 
my mind. We seated ourselves accidentally opposite to each 
other ; but what was my astonishment when soon after 1 be- 
held tears stream from his eyes ! ' Monsieur !' cried I, rising 
in the excess of my surprise. He understood me instantly, 
and replied in a broken and truly lamentable tone of voice : 
'Yen have a right to be surprised, and I am so myself; but 
this event touches me deeply. He is a good man, with whom 
I have passed my life ; he has treated me kindly, and has ever 
shown me as much friendship as they would permit. I know 
perfectly well that this grief cannot last long : in a few days I 
shall find motives for consolation from the state in which I was 
placed with him ; but at present, relationship, proximity, hu- 
manity, all touch me, and my heart is grieved.' I applauded 
this sentiment, and the prince rose, leant his head in a corner, 
his face turned to the wall, and wept, sobbing bitterly ; a cir- 
cumstance which, if I had not seen, I should never have 
believed. I besought him to cairn himself; he tried to do so, 
and just then it was announced that the Duchess of Burgundy 
had arrived ; he was obliged to join her, and I followed. 

" The Duchess of Burgundy stopped at the avenue between 
the two stables, and had not to wait long for the king's arrival. 
As soon as he approached, she alighted and ran to the door of 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMART1NE. 103 

his carriage. Madame de Maintenon, who was on that side, 
cried out, 4 What are you about, Madame ? Do not come near 
us, we are infected !' I do not know what the king did, who 
could not embrace her on this account. The princess instantly 
re-entered her carriage, and returned. 

" On her arrival she found the two princes and the Duchess 
de Berri, with the Duke de Beauvillier, whom she had sent to 
summon. The princes, each with his princess at his side, were 
seated on the same couch, near the windows, with their backs 
to the gallery ; the rest of the assembly were scattered about, 
some seated, some alone, and all in confusion throughout the 
apartment. The most confidential ladies were standing, or 
sitting on the ground near the sofa. 

" Throughout the whole room every countenance might be 
clearly read. Monseigneur was no more ; they knew it ; they 
said it : there was no longer any restraint on his account, and 
these first moments were those in which the emotions could be 
viewed in their natural colors ; for the instant, divested of all 
studied policy by the unexpected trouble and confusion of the 
night. 

" Above all, might be heard the continual howling of valets , 
then followed the lamentations of the courtiers of every degree. 
The greater number, that is to say, the fools, drew sighs up 
from their very heels, and with wild and dry eyes praised 
Monseigneur, but always in the same words, lauding him for 
his goodness, and pitying the king for having lost so virtuous 
a son. The most cunning, or most considerate, became already 
alarmed for the king's health. They had wit enough to retain 
so much sagacity amid all this trouble, and did not leave room 
to doubt it by the frequency of their repetitions. Others, truly 
afflicted, and of the fallen party, cried bitterly, or tried to calm 
themselves by an effort as palpable as their sobs. Amid these 
various evidences of affliction, little or not at all appropriate,, 
there was no conversation. A casual exclamation might now 
and then be heard to proceed from some unhappy individual, 
who received an answer from his sorrowful neighbor. A word 
in a quarter of an hour; haggard and sorrowful eyes; occa* 



104 WORKS OF FENELON. 

sionally an involuntary movement of the hand, while all the 
rest of their persons remained motionless. Those who were 
only curious and little uneasy were few; not counting the 
fools, who had nearly all the talk to themselves, asking ques- 
tions and exhibiting despair enough for all the rest. Those 
who already looked upon this event as favorable, had great 
difficulty in carrying their demeanor to the necessary point of 
austere grief; but all was merely a transparent veil, which 
could not prevent quick eyes from ascertaining real feelings. 
These last were as careful as those who were really affected, 
but their looks betrayed how in reality their minds were agi- 
tated. Constant changes of position, like people who were 
not at eane either sitting or standing, a careful avoidance of 
each other from fear of a mutual encounter of eyes, the mo- 
mentary embarrassment which occurred when they did meet, 
the appearance of a sort of indescribable freedom in their 
whole air in spite of their efforts to restrain and compose 
themselves; a quick and sparkling glance around betrayed 
them notwithstanding their utmost endeavors at concealment. 
"The two princes, and the two princesses seated at their 
sides, taking care of them, were the most exposed to view. 
Monseigneur the Duke of Burgundy, shed from real emotion 
and good feeling, with a gentle mien, natural, religious, and 
patient tears. The Duke de Berri also wept abundantly and 
bitterly, and uttered not only sobs, but cries and groans. 
These were carried to such an extent that they w T ere obliged to 
undress him on the spot, and to have recourse to doctors and 
remedies. The Duchess de Berri was beside herself. The 
most agonizing despair, mingled with horror, was depicted on 
her countenance, on which might be seen, as if written in pal- 
pable characters, a perfect frenzy of grief; not caused by feel- 
ings of friendship, but by those of interest. Often roused by 
the cries of her husband, prompt in assisting and supporting 
him, she showed a lively anxiety for his sufferings, but soon 
after appeared again totally absorbed in her own thoughts. 
The Ducbess of Burgundy also tried to console her spouse, and 
found it a less difficult task than that of appearing as if she 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 105 

herself wanted consolation. A few tears drawn forth by the 
spectacle, and often with difficulty kept up, sufficed, with the 
aid of a handkerchief, to make her eyes red and swollen, and 
to disfigure her face, although frequent stolen glances fell upon 
all the assembly, and scrutinized separately the countenance of 
each. 

" The Duke de Beauvillier stood near them, and with a cold 
and tranquil air, issued orders for the consolation of the other 
princes. 

" Madame, re-attired in fall dress, entered, crying loudly, 
not really recognizing anybody, but inundating all with tears 
as she embraced them alternately, causing the whole chateau 
to resound with renewed lamentations. She presented the 
grotesque spectacle of a princess arrayed in full costume, in 
the middle of the night, coming to mingle her tearc ?,nd groans 
with a crowd of women, half undressed and entirely in mas- 
querade. 

"The Duchess of Orleans, and some of her ladies who 
regarded the event in the same light with herself, had retired 
into the little cabinet, and were shut in there when I arrived. 

" I wished still to doubt, though all revealed itself in its 
true colors ; but I could not make up my mind to abandon the 
belief that I might hear a confirmation of the truth from some 
one that I could trust. By chance I stumbled on M. D'O., to 
whom I put the question, and he replied distinctly. I then 
endeavored to appear as if I were not glad. I cannot te-I if I 
succeeded ; but it is at least certain that neither grief nor joy 
blunted my curiosity, and that in taking care to preserve every 
appearance of decorum, I committed myself to none of the 
unhappy assembly. I no longer dreaded a return of fire from 
the citadel of Meudon, nor the cruel conduct of its implacable 
garrison ; and I restrained myself less than I did before the 
king's departure for Marly, to observe at freedom this numer- 
ous company ; to cast my eyes upon the most grieved or on 
those who were not grieved at all ; to follow both with my 
looks, and to scrutinize them with my stolen glances. It must 
be confessed, that to those who are quite au fait to the mi?*- 

5* 



106 WORKS OF FENELON. 

nal machinery of a Court, the first aspect of rare events of this 
kind, so interesting in their different characteristics, affords ex- 
treme satisfaction. Every countenance speaks of the cares, the 
intrigues, the labor employed to advance fortune, of the lorma- 
tion and progress of cabals, of the address necessary to main- 
tain some and overthrow others, of the various means employed 
to carry on all these schemes; of combinations more or less 
advanced, of mutual repulses, coldness, hatred, and underhand 
baseness ; ^f the manoeuverings, advances, management, little- 
ness, meanness, of some ; of the overthrow of others in the 
midst of thei) career, or when on the point of realizing their 
hopes. I saw the utter consternation of those who were in 
full possession of their wishes, and the blow sustained by their 
opponents who were yet in expectation. I beheld the power 
of that elasticity which even in such a moment could profit by 
unlooked-for circumstances ; I noted the extreme satisfaction 
of some (and I was one of the foremost), the rage of others, 
and their spiteful embarrassment in the endeavor to hide their 
real feelings. I saw eyes darted round in every direction to 
fathom souls under the first emotions of surprise, and under an 
unlooked-for overthrow. Astonishment, disappointment, sus- 
picion, anxious inquiry, all were mingled and exhibited with 
characteristic variety. From this living mass of contradiction, 
a keen observer might extract intense enjoyment, which, how- 
ever shadowy and fleeting, is nevertheless one of the most 
profitable as well as useful lessons which can be acquired in a 
Court ' 

"But he," continues St. Simon, "on whom this event pro- 
duced the greatest impression, was Fenelon. How long he 
had prepared his mind for this catastrophe ! How near was 
now his approach to a certain and complete triumph, which 
burst at once, like a powerful ray of light into the abode of 
darkness ! Confined for twelve years to his diocese, this pre- 
late had grown old under the weight of hopes deferred, and 
saw time roll on in unvarying uniformity, which reduced him 
to despair. Always obnoxious to the king, before whom no- 
body dared to pronounce 1 is name, even on indifferent matters, 



LIFE OF FKNELON, BY LAMARTINE. 107 

and more hateful still to Madame de Maintenon, because she 
had caused his ruin ; . . . . more exposed than others to the 
terrible cabal which had disposed of the deceased dauphin, he 
had no other resource than in the unalterable attachment of 
his pupil, who had also been marked as a victim by this party; 
and who, according to the ordinary course of nature, was 
likely to continue so, longer than his preceptor could hope to 

survive In the twinkling of an eye this pup 1 ! became 

dauphin; in another, he attained to a kind of regency. 

The whole Court, on this event, internally thought of Fene- 
lon; his name presented itself as a subject of remote or hope, 
for all. They believed that they saw him reign in the back- 
ground, which this unexpected and sudden death had brought 
closer to their imaginations. The conduct of the king towards 
his grandson, who until then had been kept in obscurity by his 
grandfather, redoubled the anxiety of some, and the expecta- 
tions of others. Louis the Fourteenth one morning retained 
the young prince in his cabinet at the hour of council, and 
commanded all the ministers to consult with the Duke of 
Burgundy whenever he summoned them, and when he did not, 
they were to go of their own accord, and render him an account 
of state affairs, as if they were communicating with the king 
himself. " This order came like a thunderbolt upon the min- 
isters, who were almost all Fenelon's enemies," says the author 
of the "Mysteries of the Palace." "What a fall for such 
men," he adds, " to have to deal with a prince who had now 
no obstacle between him and the throne, and who was clever, 
enlightened, just, and of a superior understanding ; who weighed 
every thing conscientiously, and who, in addition to all this, 
was in the strictest confidential intercourse, both mind and 
heart, with Fenelon !" 

This change was the work of Madame de Maintenon, towards 
whom the young prince, by Fenelon's advice, had ever shown 
a scrupulous deference, flattering to her pride, and promising 
well for the future. Mingled with the death of the dauphin, 
she had felt a shudder at the prospect of the future reign. To 
secure eventually a prolongation of her influence, she wished 



108 WORKS OF FENELON. 

to purchase the gratitude of the successor. On the day after 
the funeral, she passed over to the party which until then she 
had held estranged from favor. The king, who no longer 
thought except as she did, appeared himself to prepare the 
transition from his own tomb to the throne of his grandson. 

Fenelon, relieved from his hopeless state by the hand of 
death, which he took for the hand of Providence, uttered a 
cry of deliverance and restrained joy, to his pupil. " God," he 
wrote to him, " has just struck a great blow ! but his hand is 
often merciful even in its severest chastisement. This unex- 
pected affliction is given to the world, to show to blinded men 
that princes, however great they may appear, are in reality 
but of trifling importance. Happy are those who have never 
looked upon authority in other light than that of a trust con- 
fided to them for the benefit of their people ! Now is the time 
to render yourself beloved, feared, esteemed. You must en- 
deavor more and more to please the king, to insinuate yourself 
into his heart, that he may feel a boundless affection for you. 
Watch over him and console him with all suitable assiduity 
and obliging attentions. You must become the king's adviser, 
the father of the people, the consoler of the oppressed, the 

resource of the unfortunate, the support of the nation 

Discard flatterers, distinguish merit, seek it out, forestall it, 
learn to bring it into action ; make yourself superior to all, as 
you are placed above all. .... You must endeavor to act as 
father, not as a master. All cannot belong to one, but one 
must belong to all, to promote the general happiness of the 
people." 

This direct advice of Fenelon was enforced every day by the 
most intimate counsellors that he could attach to the prince, in 
the persons of his two friends, the Dukes de Beauvillier and 
Chevreuse. 

"Let him undeceive the public," wrote Fenelon to them, 
" respecting the little matters of scrupulous piety which they 
impute to him; he may be strict as far as concerns his private 
feelings, but do not let him cause them to dread a severe 
reform, of which society is incapable. He ought only to talk 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMAETIKE. 109 

of that which he can carry through ; no puerilities or trifling 

in religion He can better learn to govern men, by 

studying them, than by studying books." 

The palace of Fenelon, hitherto deserted, now became the 
vestibule of royal favor. The courtiers and place-hunters, who 
for twelve years had kept aloof as from a contagion, during his 
disgrace, crowded to Cambray upon every possible pretext. 
Each wished to receive the guarantee of future consideration. 
He received everybody with that natural grace which caused 
him to reign by anticipation in every heart, as he already in 
effect occupied every thought. 

The notes upon government which he addressed through 
the Duke de Chevreuse to the dauphin, contain an entire 
monarchical constitution. His political reforms had passed 
from poetry into reality, but they were divested of the chimeras 
which brought them into disrepute in Telemachus, and bore 
the impress of maturity, reflection, and experience. The 
saint had become a minister, the poet a statesman. In his 
maxims were found all that has since been accomplished, at- 
tempted, or prepared, for ameliorating the condition of the 
people. 

The term of military service was to be reduced to a period 
of five years. 

The pensions to discharged soldiers were to be distributed 
among their families, to be spent in their villages, instead of 
being wasted in idleness and debauchery at the Palace of the 
Invalids in the capital. 

France was never again to be engaged in a general war 
against the whole of Europe. 

There was to be a system of alliances varying with the le- 
gitimate interests of the country. 

A regular and public account of the receipts and expenses 
of the State. 

A fixed and registered assessment of taxes ; the votes for, and 
division of these subsidies, to be decided by the representatives 
of the provinces. 

There were to be provincial assemblies. 



110 WORKS OF FENELON. 

The suppression of the reversion and right of inheritance of 
public offices. 

The States-General of the kingdom were to be converted 
into National Assemblies. 

The nobility were to be deprived of every feudal authority 
and privilege, and to be reduced to an importance derived only 
from their family title. 

The office of judge was to be gratuitous, and not hereditary. 

The right of commerce was to be regulated ; manufacturers 
were to be encouraged. 

Public pawnbroker* and savings banks were to be established. 

All strangers who w 'shed to become naturalized in France 
were to have foil l:Lerty to do so. 

Church property was to be rated for the benefit of the State. 

Bishops and ministers were to be siecieo by their peers or 
by their people. 

There was to be perfect liberty of conscience. 

Such were the plans of Fenelon, already prepared against 
the moment when he should be called upon to become a min- 
ister. If the Duke of Burgundy had lived, and if Fenelon had 
retained the same ascendency over him which for so many 
years he had maintained, 1789 would have commenced in 
1716, and the reformed monarchy would only have been a 
Christian republic with a supreme head. 

But it is never permitted to one man to step in advance of a 
nation. Providence was about to overturn, in the premature 
grave of the prince, all the ideas, plans, virtues, dreams, ambi- 
tion, hopes, and existence of the philosopher. 

The blast of death was upon the royal family ; all fell under 
it before Louis the Fourteenth, who was ready to fall with the 
last. The Duchess of Burgundy, the delight of the Court, and 
the joy of her husband, unexpectedly struck, brought him with 
her to the grave. The blow was as sudden as it was terrible. 
Fenelon had no time to prepare his heart ; he learnt almost 
at the same moment the illness and death of his pupil. This 
pupil had become the hope of France ; his reign was looked 
forward to, as the revival of virtue and public happiness. 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMAKTLNE. Ill 

Fenelon had corrected and brought to perfection in this soul, 
the work roughly hewn by nature, of an accomplished prince. 

" What a love of the truly good !" exclaims the least adula- 
tory of historians. " What forgetfulness of self, what purity 
of intention, what proofs of divinity in this candid, simple, and 
powerful mind, which, as much as is permitted to man below, 
bore the impress of its sacred derivation ! What sudden 
bursts of thankfulness during his last agony, for his preserva- 
tion from the sceptre, and the account which he should have 
had to render of its use ! What ardent love of God ! what a 
lowly opinion of his own insignificance : what a magnificent 
idea of the infinity of nercy! what a modified confidence! 
what profound peace ! what invincible ?*tii-5£ee! what sweet- 
ness ! what pure chanty, which made him desire to be with his 
Creator ! France at last sinks under this heavy chastisement. 
God showed her a prince that she did not deserve : the earth 
' was unworthy of him !'...." 

This prince, his virtues, his holiness, the hopes revealed and 
then withdrawn, all were the work of Fenelon. The master 
had expired with the disciple ; Fenelon died with the Duke of 
Burgundy. 

He only allowed a few words to escape him. " All my ties 
are broken : there is no longer any thing to bind me to the 
earth !" His life from that moment was rendered desolate ; he 
had lost its aim : this reign, of which he had dreamt, as a boon 
to the human race, was buried with the Germanicus of France. 
"He has shown him to the world, and he has taken him 
away," w r rote he several weeks after to the Duke de Chevreuse, 
the confidant of his grief. I am struck with horror, and ill 
without a malady, from the shock. In weeping for the dead 
prince, I mourn for the survivors. The king must make 
peace. What will be our fate, if we should fall into the trou- 
bles of a minority ? Without a mother ! without a regent ! an 
unfortunate war abroad, and all resources exhausted at home ! 
.... I would give my life not only for the State, but for the 
children of our dear prince, who is dearer to me now than* 
when he was spared to us." He urgently entreated the Duke 



112 WORKS OF FENELON. 

de Beauvillier to impress on Madame de Maintenon the urgent 
necessity that the king should form a council of government, 
at the head of which his most virtuous friends should preside. 
" I expect but little," said he, " from this superannuated favor- 
ite, full of the anger, jealousy, littleness, dislikes, spite, and art- 
fulness common to women ; but God makes use of many im- 
plements." He conjured the Duke de Chevreuse not to refuse, 
from ill-timed modesty, to become one of the council of 
regency. This government, composed of those whom he had 
for so many years inspired, would still have been that of the 
Duke of Burgundy. Fenelon pursued the dream of his life, 
for the happiness of the nation, even to the sepulchre of the 
prince for whom he had conceived it, and wished him to reign 
even after his death. In this thought, which actuated him to 
the end, he trembled lest the king should discover among the 
papers of the Duke of Burgundy a writing which would 
appear to him a more unpardonable crime than " Telemachus." 
This was entitled, " A Guide for the Conscience of a King," — 
a code of piety, toleration, and of duty towards the people, 
every line of which was an accusation against the egotism, 
persecutions, and unprofitable personal glory of Louis the 
Fourteenth. But the friends of Fenelon had removed this 
manuscript from the papers of the king's grandson. 

The death of Fenelon's two intimates, the Duke de Chev- 
reuse and the Duke de Beauvillier, caused this last chimera of 
the public good to fade into nothing ; the holy ambition of 
their friend died with them. Fenelon turned his thoughts 
from the decline and misfortunes of the reign about to end, 
and fixed them solely on things immortal. His writings and 
correspondence at this time bear the impress of that melan- 
choly, which, in worldly men, shows the disappointment of a 
mistaken life, and in religious minds the transfer of their hopes 
from earth to heaven. He wrote, as Socrates in his last hour 
discoursed, upon the immortality of the soul. Friendship still 
remained, but he lost much by the death of the Abbe de 
Langeron, the pupil, confidant, and support of his heart 
through all his varying fortunes. The Abbe de Langeron 



LIFE OF FENKLON, BY LAMARTINE. 113 

expired in the arms of his master. "Alas! I have not the 
strength you suppose," wrote Fenelon to a mutual friend who 
congratulated him upon not allowing his pious feelings to be 
disturbed by the grief of human separations ; I confess that 
I have wept for myself while weeping for my friend. I feel a 
sort of internal languor, and can only derive consolation by 
giving way to the lassitude of my sorrow. Our dear departed 
friend died with an enlightened and consoling view of his 
end, that would have affected you deeply. Even when his 
ideas became a little clouded, his sentiments expressed hope, 
patience, and entire submission to the will of God. I tell you 
all this that I may not trouble you with my distress, without, 
at the same time, showing you the comfort which faith affords 
in grief, of which St. Augustin speaks, and which God has 
upon this occasion permitted me to feel. God has done as he 
thinks best ; he has preferred the happiness of my friend to 
my earthly consolation. I offered up him whom I trembled 
to lose ! " 

" I live no longer but for friendship," exclaimed he after- 
wards, in reverting to this loss, " and friendship will cause my 
death. But we shall soon regain what we appear to have lost ; 
in a little time there will be no longer cause to weep." 

A fever caused by his distress of mind seized him on New- 
Year's day, 1715, and in six days after consumed the small 
portion of vitality which years, labor, and grief had spared in 
that heart which had been devoted to the cause of humanity. 
He died as a saint and a poet, causing to be read aloud to 
him from the sacred Canticles, the most sublime and soothing 
hymns, which carried at the same time his soul and imagina- 
tion to heaven. " Repeat that passage again," said he to his 
reader, delighted with the songs of hope. " Again, again ! I 
can never hear enough of these divine words !" cried he when 
they were silent, thinking that he slept. His desire for this 
foretaste of immortality was insatiable. " Lord," he once ex- 
claimed, " if I am still necessary to thy people, I refuse not to 
labor for the rest of my days. Thy will be done !" These 
words afflicted those present, and the Abbe de Chanterac, his 



114 WORKS OF FENELON. 

first and last friend, said to him, " But why do you leave us? 
In this desolation to whom will you confide us ? Perhaps 
ferocious beasts may come and devour your little flock." He 
replied only by a tender look and a sigh. He expired gently 
on the following morning, with a resignation which appeared 
like joy, surrounded by the prayers and affectionate oflices of 
his weeping attendants. 

The Abbe de Chanterac, as if he had nothing more to do 
on earth after the death of him for whom he had solely lived, 
expired of grief after the funeral of his friend. All France 
mourned in her soul for the loss of her saint and poet. Louis 
the Fourteenth himself appeared to discover at last, but when 
it was too late, that a mighty mind was wanting to his em- 
pire, and a great sustaining force to his old age. " Here was 
a man," he exclaimed, " who would have served us well under 
the disasters by which my kingdom is about to be assailed !" 
Vain posthumous regret, which appreciates not genius until 
it is extinct, nor virtue until buried in the tomb ! 

Such was the life and death of Fenelon. His name has 
become even more popular and immortal than his works, be- 
cause the perfections of his soul exceeded those of his genius ; 
adored for himself alone, his name is his immortality. Men 
are more just in their retribution than is generally believed. 
It was the nature of Fenelon to love ; it was his glory to be 
beloved. Of all the great men of this grand age of Louis 
the Fourteenth, not one has left the recollection of so gentle a 
ministry. There is a tenderness in the accent of all when speak- 
ing of him, which describes the individual man. His poetry 
enchants our infancy, his rei.gioc breathes the gentleness of 
the lamb, the emblem of Christ ; even his political doctrines 
show only the errors and ^lu^cs of mistaken love ; and his 
whole life is the poetic hi*tot? of a good man struggling with 
the mi: risibilities of the times. 

>. Lfco been said that he has not worked out the good which 
he iittirt.il T od. He has done better : he has originated the idea ; 
he has in thought applied the Gospel to society ; he desired 
to see the reign of heaven upon earth ; he taught kings the 



LIFE OF FENELON, BY LAMARTINE. 115 

sacred rights of man, while he showed the people the duties 
of subjects. He thirsted for Christian equality, regulated 
liberty, justice, morality, and charity, in the dealings of the 
government with the people, and of the people with the gov- 
ernment ; he was the tribune of virtue, and the prophet of 
social improvement ; he has expanded his own soul over the 
souls of two centuries ; sometimes the poet of imagination, 
but always the poet of charity, he has softened and Christian- 
ized the genius of France. Conscience owes him an additional 
virtue— toleration ; thrones, another duty — the love of the 
people; republics, an added glory — humanity. France has 
possessed bolder natures, but she has given us none so full of 
tenderness. If genius acknowledged a sex, it might be said 
that Fenelon had the imagination of a woman to dream of 
heaven, and her soul to love the earth. When we pronounce 
his name, or open his book, we fancy that we look on his face, 
and persuade ourselves that we hear the voice of a friend. 
What quality of fame can surpass this love in veneration and 
solid value ? 

The epitaph of Fenelon might be written in these words : 
" There are men who have made France more feared or 
renowned, but none have rendered her more beloved by other 
nations." 



ESSAY 



CHARACTER AND GENIUS OF FENELON. 



BY M. VILLEMAXISr. 



Fenelon, Francois de Salignac de Lamotte, of an ancient 
and illustrious family, was born at the Chateau de Fenelon, in 
Perigord, August 6, 1651. Under the eyes of a virtuous 
father, he pursued his literary studies with equal success and 
rapidity ; and nurtured from childhood in classical antiquity, 
educated in solitude among the models of Greece, his noble 
and delicate taste appeared at the same time with his happy 
genius. Called to Paris by his uncle, the Marquis de Fenelon, 
in order to complete his philosophic studies and commence 
the course of theology necessary for his destined vocation, he 
underwent, at fifteen years of age, the same trial as Bossuet, 
and preached before an auditory less celebrated, in truth, than 
that of the Hotel de Rambouillet, yet highly distinguished. 
This splendor of a premature reputation alarmed the Marquis 
de Fenelon, who, in order to remove the young man from the 
seductions of the world and of self-love, sent him to the semi- 
nary of St. Sulpice. In this retreat, Fenelon was penetrated 
with the evangelical spirit, and merited the friendship of a 
virtuous man, M. Tronson, Superior of St. Sulpice. Here he 
received holy orders. 

It was then that his religious fervor inspired him with the 
design of consecrating himself to the missions of Canada. 



118 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Crossed in his project by the fears of his family and the feeble- 
ness of his constitution, he soon turned his attention towards 
the missions of the Levant, towards Greece, where the profane 
and the sacred, where St. Paul and Socrates, where the 
Church of Corinth, the Parthenon and Parnassus, invited his 
poetic and religious imagination. Enchanted by the souvenirs 
of Athens, he was indignant at the thought that the native 
land of letters and glory should be the prey of barbarians. 
"When shall I see," he wrote, "the blood of the Persians 
mingling itself with that of the Turks on the fields of Mara- 
thon, in order to give Greece wholly to religion, to philosophy, 
to art, which re-claim her as their native land !" The enthusi- 
asm of the young apostle, however, gave way to graver con- 
siderations. Fenelon, diverted from these foreign missions, 
devoted himself wholly to an apostleship which* he did not 
believe less useful — to the instruction of the ' Nouvelles Catho- 
liquesj the newly converted women in Paris. The duties and 
the cares of this employment, in which he buried his genius 
during ten years, prepared him for the composition of his first 
work, — the Treatise on the Education of Girls? a masterpiece 
of delicacy and of reason, which the author of Emile and 
painter of Sophie has not surpassed. This work was designed 
for the Duchess de Beauvilliers, the pious and wise mother of 
a numerous family. Fenelon, in the modest obscurity of his 
ministry, already enjoyed with the Dukes de Beauvilliers and 
de Chevreuse that virtuous friendship which was equally proof 
against favor and disgrace, the court and exile. 

He had found in Bossuet an attachment that was to be less 
durable. Admitted to the familiarity of this great man, he 
studied his genius and his life. The example of Bossuet, 
whose wholly polemical religion was employed upon contro- 
versies and conversions, doubtless inspired Fenelon with the 
Traite du ministere des pasteurs? a work in which he com- 
bated heretics with more moderation than his illustrious model 
exhibited. The subject, the merit of the work, and the all- 

1 Traite de V education des files. ' Treatise on the Ministry of Pastors. 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAIN. 119 

powerful influence of Bossuet led Louis XIV. to confide to 
Fenelon the care of a new mission in Poitou. The rigorous 
uniformity which Louis XIV. wished to extend over all the 
consciences of his kingdom, and the resistance that sprang 
from oppression, often obliged the monarch to have his mis- 
sionaries sustained by soldiers. Fenelon did not limit himself 
to absolutely rejecting the odious assistance of dragoons ; he 
reserved to himself the choice of ecclesiastical colleagues who 
should participate in a ministry of persuasion and gentleness. 
He converted without persecuting, and made the belief whose 
apostle he was, an object of love. 

The importance then attached to such missions atti acted, 
more than ever, attention to Fenelon, who happily acquitted 
himself of his task. A great object then presented itself to 
ambition and talent. The dauphin, the grandson of Louis 
XIV., was no longer a child ; and the king was seeking a 
person to whose hands he should confide this precious deposit. 1 
Virtue, aided by the favor of Madame de Maintenon, obtained 
the preference. M. de Beauvilliers was named governor ; and 
he chose Fenelon, with the consent of the king, as preceptor 
of the young prince. These virtuous friends, seconded by the 
cares of some men worthy of imitating them, commenced the 
noble task of educating a king. History attests that never 
was there seen a more perfect co-operation of wills and efforts. 
Fenelon, by the natural superiority of his genius, was the soul 
of this re-union. It was he who, transported by the hope of 
some day placing virtue upon the throne, and seeing the hap- 
piness of France in the education of her king, destroyed with 
an admirable art all the dangerous germs that nature and the 
premature sentiment of power had implanted in that young 
heart, and made the defects of a stubborn character yield to 
the habit of most salutary virtues. This education, whose 
immortal monuments remain to us in the writings of Fenelon, 
would seem the masterpiece of genius consecrating itself to 
the happiness of men. 



1689. 



120 WORKS OF FENELON. 

l/ 

Fenelon, brought into the midst of the Court, and only half 
giving himself up to it, made himself admired by the graces of 
a brilliant and facile mind, by the charm of the noblest and 
most eloquent conversation. There was in him something of 
the seducing and the inspired. Imagination, genius, escaped 
him on all sides ; and the most elegant politeness adorned the 
ascendency of genius, and made it pardoned. This personal 
superiority excited much more admiration than the small 
number of works that he had produced. He was praised on 
this account at the period of his reception into the Academy ; 
and, a little time afterwards, La Bruyere painted him still 
under the same traits, recognizable by all contemporaries. 
" One feels," he said, " the force and the ascendency of that 
rare spirit, whether he preaches from his genius and without 
preparation, whether he pronounces a studied and oratorical 
discourse, or explains his thoughts in conversation, — always 
master of the ear and heart of those who listen to him, he does 
not allow them to envy so much elevation, so much facility, 
delicacy, and politeness." 

This ascendency of virtue, grace, and genius, which, ex- 
cited in the hearts of Fenelon's friends a tenderness mined 
with enthusiasm, which had won Madame de Mainceici, in 
spite of her mistrust and reserve, were unavailing against 
the prepossessions of Louis XIV. This prince doubtless es- 
teemed the man to whom he confided the education of his 
grandson ; but he never had any liking for him. It has been 
thought, that the brilliant and facile eloquence of Fenelon dis- 
turbed a monarch who was displeased with any sort of pre- 
eminence except his own. But, if we look at a letter in which 
Fenelon, in the overflow of confidence, informed Madame de 
Maintenon that Louis XIV. had no idea of his duties as a 
king, it will be easily supposed that an opinion so severe, 
with which Fenelon seems to have been too deeply penetrated 
never to have let some indiscreet revelation of it escape him, 
could not remain wholly unknown to a monarch accustomed 
to praise, and who could be offended at a less severe judgment. 
History has not participated in the extreme rigor of this opin- 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAIN. 121 

ion upon a prince who, in tht exercise of a power in truth 
absolute, always bore about him propriety and grandeur, 
and preserved honor under despotism — his greatest enemy. 
Fenelon had preserved at Court the most irreproachable dis- 
interestedness. He spent five years there, in the prominent 
place of preceptor to the dauphin, without asking, without 
receiving any favor. Louis XIV., who knew how to reward 
nobly and appropriately, desired to repair this oversight, 
and named Fenelon to the Archbishopric of Cambray. 1 This 
moment of favor and prosperity was that in which Fenelon 
was destined to receive a blow that would have mortally 
wounded a less inviolable reputation. 

Fenelon, whose natural temperament led him to cherish a 
lively and spiritual devotion, had for some time fancied that 
he recognized a part of his principles in the mouth of a pious 
and insane woman, who doubtless had much persuasion and 
talent, since she obtained an extraordinary influence over sev- 
eral superior minds. Madame Guyon, writing and dogmatizing 
upon grace and pure love, at first persecuted and arrested, soon 
afterwards admitted into the intimate society of the Duke de 
Beauvilliers, received by Madame de Maintenon, authorized to 
disseminate her doctrines in Saint : Cyr, then suspected by Bos 
suet, arrested anew, interrogated and condemned, was the pre- 
text of Fenelon's disgrace. The inexorable Bossuet did not 
relish the mystic subtilties, the refinements of divine love, with 
which the lively and tender imagination of Fenelon was too 
easily captivated. Bossuet wished to have the new Arch- 
bishop of Cambray himself condemn the errors of a woman 
whose friend he had been. Fenelon refused through conscience 
and delicacy, fearing to compromise opinions that were dear 
to him ; wishing to deal gently with an unfortunate woman, 
who appeared to him only culpable of excess in the love of 
God. Perhaps, in fine — for he was human — he was shocked 
by the theological hauteur of Bossuet, who pressed him as if 
he had wished to convert him. 

i In 1694. 
. Vol I.— 6 



122 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Fenelon published that too famous book, of the Maxims of 
the Saints,* which may be regarded as an indirect apology, or 
even as a softened exposition (redaction attenuante), of Madame 
Guyon's principles. In an age when a religious opinion was a 
political event, the first appearance of this work excited much 
astonishment and many murmurs. All those who could be 
secretly jealous of the rank and genius of Fenelon, declared 
themselves against the errors of his theology. Elevated above 
any mean sentiment, but inflexible, impatient of contradiction, 
negligent of mundane regards and proprieties when he be- 
lieved religion compromised, Bossuet himself denounced to 
Louis XIV. in the midst of his Court, the heresy of the new 
archbishop. At the moment when Fenelon received this 
weighty blow, the burning of his palace at Cambray, the loss 
of his library, of his manuscripts, of his papers, put his soul to 
a new proof, and w T rung from him no other complaint than 
these words, so touching, and in his mouth so true : " It is 
better that my mansion should be burned than the cottage of 
a poor laborer." 

Nevertheless, Bossuet, committed by the eclat of his first 
declaration, prepared himself to pursue his rival, and seemed 
eager to wring from him a recantation. The admirer and 
friend of Fenelon, Madame de Maintenon, separated herself 
from him with an inconceivable coldness. Fenelon submitted 
his book to the judgment of the Holy See. Bossuet had al- 
ready composed remarks, in which the bitterest and most ve- 
hement censure was coupled with pompous expressions of 
regret and friendship. He proposed at the same time a 
conference, which Fenelon refused, preferring to defend his 
book at the tribunal of Rome. It was then that he received 
orders to quit the Court, and retire into his diocese. News of 
this excited in the soul of the Duke of Burgundy a grief that 
was the eulogy of the education of that young prince. The 
cabal had wished to profit by the fall of Fenelon, in order to 
overturn the Duke de Beauvilliers ; he was saved by the force 



Des Maximeis das /Saints. 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAIN. 123 

of virtue, and his very devotion to the cause of an unfortunate 
friend interested the generosity of Louis XI Y. 

In spite of the manifest wish of this prince, the court of 
Rome hesitated to condemn an archbishop so illustrious as 
Fenelon. This delay and this repugnance, which honored 
Pope Innocent VIII., gave scope to the talent of the accuser 
and the accused ; and while the judges were deliberating, the 
writings of the two adversaries succeeded each other^with 
prodigious rapidity. The struggle changed its object. C-After 
having exhausted dogma, Bossuet threw himself back upon 
facts ; and his account of quietism, wittily and sharply written, 
seemed destined to fasten upon Fenelon himself a part of the 
ridicule inseparable from Madame Guyon. / /The Abbe Bossuet, 
unworthy nephew of Bossuet, carried personal accusations still 
further ; and, collecting the most odious rumors, he sought to 
tarnish the purity of Fenelon. Never did the indignation of 
a virtuous and calumniated soul show itself more eloquent. 
Fenelon, in an apology, demolished these vile accusations ; and 
new letters from Louis XIV., written by Bossuet, new intrigues, 
and even threats, were necessary, in order to wring from the 
court of Rome a condemnation, which was even softened in 
form and expression. The interest of this controversy, so for- 
eign to the ideas of our age, is perfectly preserved in the 
excellent history of Fenelon, by M. de Bausset ; and in this 
work one will find an animated picture of the court of Rome 
and the court of France, which took a lively interest in this 
frivolous question, to which importance was given by the opin- 
ions of the times, and by the prodigious talent of the two 
rivals. 

The long and glorious resistance of the Archbishop of Cam- 
bray had still further sharpened the resentment of Louis XIV. ; 
and the hesitation of the Pope to condemn Fenelon' rendered 



1 Peccavit excessu amoris divini, sed vos peccdstis defectu amoris proximi,— 
" He has sinned by excess of love for God, but yon have sinned by defi- 
ciency of love for your neighbor," wrote Pope Innocent to those prelates 
who had distinguished themselves as Fenelon's adversaries. A *nore pun- 
gent reproof cannot be found in ecclesiastical history. 



124: WORKS OF FENELON. 

Ckis disgrace with the Court more irreconcilable than ever./ 
When the brief so long deferred, obtained by so much discus- 
sion and intrigue, finally appeared [1699], Fenelon hastened to 
subscribe it, and to condemn himself by a most touching and 
simple mandatory letter, in which Bossuet did not fail to find 
much parade and ambiguity. The modest submission of Fe- 
nelon, his silence, his episcopal virtues, and the admiration 
which they inspired, would not, doubtless, have reopened to 
him the entrance of the court of Louis XIV., but an unex- 
pected event more than ever irritated the monarch. 

" Telemachus," composed some years before, at the period of 
Fenelon's favor, was published, some months after the affair of 
quietism, by the infidelity of a domestic charged with trans- 
cribing the manuscript. The work, suppressed in France, was 
reproduced by the presses of Holland, and obtained in all 
Europe a success that malignity rendered injurious to Louis 
XIV., by seeking in it allusions to the conquests and misfor- 
tunes of his reign. This prince, who had never liked the 
political ideas of Fenelon, and long since had called him a 
chimerical bel esprit, regarded the author of " Telemachus" as a 
detractor from hie glory, who added the wrong of ingratitude 
to the injustice of satire. Fenelon in his dying hour protested 
his respect for the person and the virtues of Louis XIV. This 
formal testimony, compared with the severe judgment that 
Fenelon expressed in the letter of which we have already 
spoken, allows of only one explanation «that respects his glory 
and truth. This sensible and virtuous man, preoccupied with 
the misfortunes that were mingled with the splendor of the 
reign of Louis XIV., unconsciously transferred to a work 01 
magi nation some traits of a picture which he had before his 
eyes, and which often afflicted his soul. How could he have 
helped it? How could he have spoken of peoples and kings 
without making allusions to contemporaries ? The circle of 
buman calamities and faults is more limited than it is sup- 
posed. There will be vices as long as there shall be men, says 
Tacitus ; and as long as there shall be vices, the history of 
past times will appear to be the satire of the present. 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAIN. 125 

" Telemachus" doubtless offers some reflections that can be 
distorted against Louis XIV., but it is an absurd injustice to 
search in this work for the allegorical and premeditated cen- 
sure of this great king. It was even impossible to have better 
combined all the materials, in order to disconcert allusions, and 
as much as possible escape the inevitable fatality of resem- 
blances. We believe that this generous precaution occupied 
the mind of Fenelon while composing his works, and that, 
writing for the happiness of peoples, he selected that poetic 
conception, those primitive manners, those antique societies, so 
remote from the picture of modern Europe. Why, moreover, 
should he have wished to paint Louis XIV. under the traits of 
the imprudent Idomeneus, or the sacrilegious Adrastus, rather 
than under the image of the sage and victorious Sesostris? But 
no ; these different images are the plays of an imagination that 
seeks to multiply interesting contrasts, — no one, in particular, 
is the satirical portrait of the great king, whose reign formed 
the most beautiful epoch of modern Europe. Fender, soon 
learned the indelible impression produced by "Telemachus" 
upon the heart of the king ; he appeared to resign himself to 
his separation from the Court, which he sometimes had the 
weakness to call his disgrace, as if the prolonged sojourn of an 
archbishop in the midst of his flock, that he enlightens and 
sanctifies, could ever be associated in thought with humiliation 
and misfortune. Besides, if Fenelon sometimes recollected* 
with bitterness the court of Louis XIV., he must have been 
consoled by the happiness that he diffused around him in his 
retreat at Cambray. The sanctity of the ancient bi&hops, the 
1 severity of the primitive church, the sweetness of the most 
indulgent virtue, the charm of the most captivating politeness, 
eagerness to fulfil the humblest duties of the holy ministry, 
indefatigable goodness, exhaustless charity, — such are the traita 
attributed to Fenelon by an eloquent and virtuous bishop, who 
was entitled to dwell long upon the image of that illustrious 
man. The first care of Fenelon was to instruct the clergy of 
a seminary which he had founded. He did not even disdain to 
teach their catechism to the children of his diocese. Like the 



J 26 WORKS OF FENELON. 

bishops of ancient days, he often ascended the pulpit of his 
church, and giving himself up to his heart and his faith, he 
spoke without preparation, diffusing all the treasures of his 
facile genius. 

An unforeseen occasion allowed him to develope with more 
labor his natural eloquence. The sermon which he pro- 
nounced in the cathedral of Lille, for the consecration of the 
Archbishop of Cologne, is one of the most touching and most 
perfect pieces of Christian eloquence. The misfortunes of war, 
which finally chastised the ambition of Louis XIV., had 
brought hostile troops into the diocese of Fenelon : this was 
for the holy bishop the occasion of new efforts and new sacri- 
fices. His wisdom, his firmness, his nobility of language, 
inspired the hostile generals with a salutary respect for the 
unfortunate provinces of Flanders. Eugene was worthy of lis- 
tening to the voice of the great man, whose genius he appre- 
ciated. 1 

In the midst of so many cares and labors, Fenelon kept up a 
very extensive correspondence with the ecclesiastics who con- 
sulted him, with his friends, and his relatives. In his corre- 
spondence is always recognized that happy and facile genius, to 
which wise and noble idea* upon all subjects are perfectly nat- 
ural. Several of his letters contain all the secrets of the 
knowledge of the world, analyzed with the delicacy of a cour- 
tier, and expressed in the style of La Bruyere, writing without 
effort. The situation of Cambray, on the frontiers of France, 
attracted about Fenelon many strangers, none of whom ap 
proached or left him without being penetrated with a religious 
admiration. To say nothing of Ramsay, who spent several 

1 It is now known that the Vie du Prince Eugene, though written in the 
first person, as if it were an autobiography, is the production of the Prince 
de Ligne. In this production the veteran is made thus to speak of the 
great preachers of his time: " When Bourdaloue makes me fear every 
thing, Masillon makes me hope every thing. We were horn the same year, 
and I knew him at the beginning of his career, as perfectly amiable. Bos- 
suet, astonishes me : Fenelon touches me. I saw them also in my youth ; 
and Marlborough and 1 rendered to the latter all possible honor when we 
had taken Cambray." ( Vie du Prince Eugene, p. 225 : Paris, 1810, 8vo.) 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAIN. 127 

years in the palace of Fenelon, the famous Marshal Munich, 
and the unfortunate James III., 1 felt the charm of his conver- 
sation, and the ascendency of his high wisdom. It was the 
privilege of Fenelon to appear equally admirable to the eyes 
of a priest, of a politician, or of a warrior, — an advantage in 
truth more easy to conceive, at an epoch when religion and 
ethics formed a common tie that united minds. 

Fenelon, in the wise counsels which he gave to James III., 
showed his high esteem for the English constitution, so strong 
at once against despotism and anarchy. He was exempt from 
that narrow patriotism which undervalues every thing that 
exists beyond the frontiers. His virtuous soul felt the need of 
going forth into the world, and of seeking the happiness of 
men. " I love," he said, " my family better than myself ; I 
love my country better than my family ; I love mankind bet- 
ter than my country." Admirable progression of sentiments 
and duties ! False and perverse spirits have abused this prin- 
ciple ; it nevertheless was worthy of being sanctioned by Fe- 
nelon : it is the canias generis hurriani that gushsd from the 
soul of Cicero, but was contradicted by the ferocious conquests 
of the Romans, who, ret less inconsistent than barbarous, 
enjoyed the wounds and the death of their gladiators in the 
same theatre where they applauded with transport this verse, 
more human than patriotic : 

" Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto." 

Christianity was worthy of consecrating, by the mouth of 
Fenelon, a maxim that nature has put in the heart of man. 
The humanity of Fenelon did not limit itself to exaggerated 
speculations — to impracticable generalities, which imply igno 
ranee of the details of human affairs. His politics were not 
simply the dream of a virtuous soul. He had seen and judged 
the court and men ; he knew the history of all ages ; he was 
endowed with a certain independence of mind, which placed 
him above the prejudices of state and nation. It is in the 

1 The Chevalier de St. George. 



128 WORKS OF FENELON. 

different memoirs which he addressed to the Duke de Beauvil- 
liers, that may be studied the wisdom of his views upon the 
greatest interests, upon the succession of Spain, upon the 
policy proper for Philip V., upon the allies, upon the conduct 
of the war, upon the necessity of peace. Greatly to be de- 
sired is the publication of these precious writings, which are 
known only by the extracts given by Fenelon's last historian. 
That disastrous war of the Spanish succession, in bringing the 
theatre of combat near the residence of Fenelon, gave him the 
joy of seeing, after ten years of absence, the young prince whom 
he had formed, who had just taken command of the last troops 
of the vanquished Louis XIV. It cannot be disguised, how- 
ever, that the pupil of Fenelon, in the commanding of armies, 
was below the '. romise of his youth and the opinion of France. 
The letters of Fenelon to the Duke of Burgundy, during this 
decisive period, while showing the severe frankness, the sin- 
gular ascendency of the tutor, would themselves give rise to the 
suspicion that this young prince, — instructed, docile, virtuous, — 
had a genius too timid. One is not pleased that the heir of 
Louis XIV. needs to receive lessons upon all the details of his 
conduct. In spite of the respect that even the minutiae of 
virtue deserve, one is not pleased that a young prince placed 
upon eo great a stage, occupied with interests so important, 
should be disquieted and consult Fenelon, in order to know 
whether, in the movement of war, he could remain for some 
hours within the walls of a convent. One fears that such dis- 
quietudes may have left little place for great ideas, and that the 
education of the dauphin may, in some respects, have dimin- 
ished his soul, in order the better to subdue it. Ftnelon, it is 
true, always speaks to his pupil the language of an active and 
enlightened policy. But, when he reproaches him with a love 
of solitude and contemplation, a trifling piety, and a misplaced 
humility, it is difficult to believe that these defects, which 
seem so opposed to the impetuous childhood of the Duke of 
Burgundy, may not, in part, be the result of education upon 
a soul which had more ardor than light ; which, too much sub- 
dued bv religion, converted all its force into mildness and 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAIN. 129 

virtue. In the letters of Fenelon to his virtuous pupil, we find 
severe judgments upon all the generals that then formed the 
hope of France. It may be remarked, in this regard, that 
Fenelon had much sweetness in character, and much domina- 
tion in spirit. His ideas were absolute and decisive, — a habit 
that seems to pertain to promptness and force of mind. The 
continual attention that Fenelon paid to the political interests 
of France, did not in the least diminish his zeal for the affairs of 
religion and the Church. Those who particularly honor Fene- 
lon as a philosopher will, perhaps, be astonished to see him 
entering into all ecclesiastical discussions with as much ardor 
as Bossuet himself. But if Fenelon had not been, before all, 
what he ought to have been by conscience and condition, 
bishop and theologian, he would merit less estaem ; he would 
have lacked the leading characteristic of the century in which 
he lived — the sentiment of propriety and duty. When the 
unfortunate disputes of Jansenism were revived, after a long 
interruption, Fenelon wrote against the men who did not imi- 
tate his respect for the court of Rome ; and he soon found 
himself engaged in a controversy that was scarcely briefer 
and less earnest than that of pure love. The courtiers, on 
this account, supposed in Fenelon views of ambition and 
flattery. If Fenelon had wished to gain the heart of th3 king, 
he employed at the same period a nobler way, by feeding, at 
his own expense, the French army during the disastrous vrlnter 
of 1709 ; but he no more sought on this occasion than on the 
other to overcome unconquerable prejudices. He served religion 
and his country. The following year, the same sentiments in- 
spired him with the eloquent picture of the ills of France, and 
the project of associating the nation with the government, — the 
proposition for convoking an assembly of the notables. This 
memoir is of the highest interest. Fenelon therein admirably 
judges of the force and the weakness of despotism, and the 
salutary power of liberty. We can scarcely conceive that 
this generous and provident policy, which anticipated the 
opinion of Europe, should have attracted on Fenelon reproach 
and hatred, even in the middle of our century. If it were for 



130 WORKS OF FENELON. 

this reason that the name of philosopher has been given to the 
most religious of bishops, Fenelon would disavow neither his 
panegyrists nor his accusers ; and, for having desired happi- 
ness and liberty for nations, he would not believe himself less 
a Christian. The memoirs that Fenelon addressed to the 
Duke de Beauvilliers, were the prayer of a sage zealous for 
his country, but without the power to serve her. An unex- 
pected event gave a glimpse of the moment when the counsels 
of Fenelon might govern France. The grand dauphin died* 
and the Duke of Burgundy, long oppressed by the mediocrity 
of liis father, saw himself suddenly approaching the throne, 
whose heir he was, and the king, of whom he became the 
confidant and the support. His virtues, freed from a jealous 
tutelage, finally had scope for action. What joy must the 
virtuous tutor have felt, on seeing his work ready to be justified 
by the happiness of his country ! Then, full of hope, he wrote 
to his pupil, who, according to the expression of Saint-Simon, 
reigned in advance : " It is not necessary that all should ex- 
ist for one alone ; but one alone ought to exist for all, to make 
their happiness." He communicated at the same time to 
the Duke de Beauvilliers different plans of administration 
and government, that ought to be proposed to the young 
prince. 

While Fenelon was preparing the ;-eign of his pupil, sudden 
death removed the heir of the old king, who remained immov- 
ably firm in the midst of all the humiliations of his glory, and 
all the disasters of his family. Thus ended the hopes of vir- 
tue : nevertheless, Fenelon, in spite of his grief, did not aban- 
don the love of his country, even when he no longer saw be- 
tween her and him the young prince whom he had trained up 
for her. Anxious for France, whose destiny rested upon a 
monarch of seventy-six and an infant in the cradle, he wished 
to prevent the ills of a long minority. In several confidential 
memoirs which he wrote upon that subject, we recognize the 
novelty of his political views, and that spirit of liberty which, 
m his century, was not the least of its innovations. One of 
these papers is devoted to a discussion of the suspicions that 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY >T7,LEMAIN. 131 

accused the Duke of Orleans of a most frightful crime, and of 
an ambition eager to commit another. When we have read 
this memoir, whose author, without admitting the popular re- 
ports in all their horror, severely judges the scandals and vices 
of the Duke of Orleans, we feel some surprise at seeing Fe- 
nelon keeping up with this prince a philosophic correspond- 
ence. Doubtless Fenelon hoped to overcome, by virtue and 
truth, a soul abandoned to all vices, but incapable of a crime. 
It is Plato writing to Dionysius ; and the resemblance is so 
much the more true, as, setting aside revealed religion, Fe- 
nelon endeavors, before all, to prove the principles of natural 
religion, — principles ordinarily feeble and ill-established in a 
heart that has lost all others, but to which his luminous and 
simple genius lends a form that must have astonished the friv- 
olous incredulity of the Duke of Orleans. Such a discussion 
will appear, in our century, much more worthy of Fenelon 
than the theological debates in which the bull Unigenitus en- 
gaged him, near the close of his life. But this great man, 
faithful before all to his episcopal character, saw for himself no 
task more noble than that of combating opinions whicb 
troubled the consciences of men and disturbed the repose of 
the Church. 

Malignity supposed th.-n, the zeal of Fenelon was animated 
by an old spite against the Cardinal de Noailles. But when 
the conduct of a virtuous man is authorized by his duty, it 
must not be explained by his weaknesses. It was to these ab- 
stract and difficult discussions that Fenelon devoted the last 
days of a life suffering and made desolate by mourning. This 
man, so sensitive to earthly friendships, and who desired that 
all good friends might die together, lost, at short intervals, 
nearly all those whom he loved. While, afflicted with several 
successive losses, he was writing — " I no longer see aught but 
friendship, and it will be friendship that will make me die — " 
death took from him the Duke de Beauvilliers : he died him- 
self four months afterwards, at the age of sixty-four years (Jan- 
uary 7, 1*715). A light fall hastened the wished-for moment. 
His death, like his life, was that of a great and virtuous bishop. 



133 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Although Fenelon wrote much, he never appeared to seek 
fame as an author. All his works were inspired by the duties 
of his station, by his own misfortunes, or those of his country. 
Most of them escaped his hands without his knowledge, and 
were known only after his death. Some sermons — the first 
essay of his youth — have been preserved. The composition is 
not strong and elaborate, as in the masterpieces of the great 
pulpit orators ; but in them reigns an amiable enthusiasm for 
religion and virtue, a facile and vivid imagination, a natural, 
harmonious, and poetical elegance. They are brilliant sketches 
traced by a happy genius, that uses little effort. Nevertheless, 
Fenelon had reflected much upon oratorial art and pulpit elo- 
quence ; and his studies, in this regard, are found in three 
dialogues, in the manner of Plato, filled with arguments bor- 
rowed from that philosopher, and above all, written with a 
grace that seems to have been stolen from him. We have in 
our language no treatise on oratorical art that contains more 
sound, ingenious, and new ideas, and a severer and bolder im- 
partiality in judgments. The style is simple, agreeable, varied, 
fitly .eloquent, and mingled with that delicate vivacity with 
which the ancients knew how to temper didactic severity 
This production belongs to the youth of Fenelon : in it one 
everywhere feels that exquisite taste for simplicity, that love 
for naive beauty, which constitutes the inimitable character of 
his writings. The Letter on Eloquence} written towards the 
close of his life, contains only the same doctrine, applied with 
more extent, ornamented with new developments, everywhere 
enounced with the mild and persuasive authoity of a man of 
genius growing old, who discusses little, remembers, and judges; 
no shorter piece of composition presents a rbher and happier 
choice of souvenirs and examples. Fenelon cites them with 
eloquence, because they come from his soul rather than from 
his memory. But, among so many beauties, he returns to those 
that are calmest, most natural, most naive ; and then, in order 
to express what he feels, he has words of an inimitable grace. 

1 Lcttre sur V. Eloquence. 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAJN. \33 

This Letter to the Academy, 1 the Dialogues on Eloquence? 
some Letters to La Motte on Homer and the Ancients* place 
Fenelon in the first rank among critics, and serve to explain 
the original simplicity of his own writings, and the composition, 
so antique and so new, of " Telemachus." Fenelon, charmed 
with the beauties of Virgil and Homer, searches in them for 
those traits of a naive and passionate truth, which he found 
especially in Homer, and which he himself calls that amiable 
simplicity of a new-born world. The Greeks appear to him 
nearer that first epoch, and he prefers to study and imitate 
them ; Homer, Xenophon, and Plato inspired him with " Te- 
lemachus." One would be deceived in believing that Fenelon 
is indebted to Greece for nothing but the charm of Homer's 
fictions : the idea of moral beauty in the education of a young 
prince, those philosophic conversations, those proofs of courage, 
of patience, of humanity in war, respect for oaths, — all these 
beneficent ideas are borrowed from the Cyropedia. In the 
theories regarding the happiness of a people ; in the plan of a 
state government like a family, we recognize the imagination 
and the philoEcphy of Plato. But we may believe that Fene- 
lon, correcting the fables of Homer by the wisdom of Socrates, 
and forming tbat happy mixture of the most pleasing fictions, 
of the purest philosophy, and of the most humane politics, is 
able to balance, by the charm of this union, the glory of in- 
vention which he cedes to each of his models. Without 
doubt Fenelon has participated in the faults of those that he 
imitated ; and if the combats of " Telemachus" have the gran- 
deur and the fire of the combats of the Iliad, Mentor sometimes 
speaks as long as one of Homer's heroes ; and sometimes the 
details of a somewhat commonplace moral discussion remind 
us of the long interviews of the Cyropedia. Considering " Te- 
lemachus" as an inspiration of the Greek muses, it seems that 
the genius of Fenelon receives from them a force that to him 
was unnatural. The vehemence of Sophocles is completely 



1 Lettre a VAcadhnie. 2 Dialogues sur V Eloquence. 

3 Lettres a La Motte sur Homlr et sur les Anciens. 



134 WORKS OF FENELON. 

preserved in the savage imprecat'ors of Philoctetes. Love 
burns in the heart of Eucharis as in the verses of Theocritus 
Although the beauties of antiquity seem to have been gleaned 
for the composition of Telemachus, the.- e remains to the author 
some glory of invention, without taking aeecusft of what is 
creative in the imitation of foreign beauties, inimitable before 
and after Fenelon. Nothing is more beautiful than the ar- 
rangement of " Telemachus," and we do not find less grandeur 
in the general idea, than taste and skill in the union and con- 
trast of episodes. The chaste and modest loves of Antiope, 
introduced at the end of the poem, correct, in a sublime man- 
ner, the transports of Calypso. The interest of passion is thus 
twice produced, — once under the image of madness, and again 
under that of virtue. But, as " Telemachus" is especially a book 
of political ethics, what the author paints with most force, is 
ambition, that malady of kings which brings death to peoples, — 
ambition, great and generous in Sesostris, imprudent in ldo- 
meneus, tyrannical and calamitous in Pygmalion, barbarous, 
hypocritical, and impious in Adrastus. This last character, 
superior to Virgil's Mezentius, is traced with a vigor of imagi- 
nation that no historical truth could surpass. Ihis invention 
of personages is not less rare than the general invention of a 
plan. The happiest character among these truthful portraits, 
is that of young Telemachus. More developed, more active 
than the Telemachus of the Odyssey, he combines all that can 
surprise, attach, and instruct; — in the age of passions, he is 
under the guard of wisdom, which often allows him to fail, 
because faults are the education of men ; he has the priae of 
the throne, the transport of heroism, and the candor of early 
youth. This mixture of hauteur and naivete, of force and sub- 
mission, forms perhaps the most touching and most amiable 
character invented by the epic muse ; and, doubtless, Rous- 
seau, a great master in the art of painting and touching, felt 
this marvellous charm, when he supposed that Telemachus 
would be, in the eyes of chastity and innocence, the ideal 
model worthy of a first love. 

Great critics have often repeated that the hero of a poem or 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMAIN. 135 

a tragedy shouJ * not be perfect. They have admired in the 
Achilles of Homer, in the Rinaldo of Tasso, the interest of 
faults and oassions ; tut they have not foreseen the interest, 
not less new, and more instructive, of a character which, at 
first, is a mixture of all human weaknesses, but gradually 
disengages itself from them, and is developed wdiile being 
purified. The character of Telemachus offers the charm 
of virtue and the vicissitudes of weakness ; it has none the 
less movement because it tends to perfection. It is animated 
and perfected at the same time ; and the interest that we 
feel is agitated like the strife of passions, and agreeable like 
the triumph of virtue. Doubtless Fenelon, in this form given 
to the principal character, sought before all the instruction 
of his pupil; but he created at the same time one of the 
most interesting and most novel conceptions of the epopee. 
In order to completely seize in Telemachus — that treasure of 
antique riches — the part of invention belonging to the modern 
author, it would be necessary to compare the Hades and Ely- 
sium of Fenelon with the same pictures traced by Homer and 
Virgil. Whatever may be the sublimity of Ajax's silence; 
whatever may be the grandeur, the perfection of the sixth 
book of the iEneid, one would feel all that Fenelon has created 
anew, or rather all that he has drawn from the Christian mys- 
teries, by an admirable art, or by an unconscious remembrance. 
The greatest of these beauties unknown to antiquity, is the 
invention of pains and joys purely spiritual, substituted for the 
feeble or grotesque picture of physical ills and felicities. Here- 
in Feuelon is sublime, and seizes better than Dante the aid, so 
new and so great, of Christianity. Nothing is more philo- 
sophic and more terrible than the moral tortures which he 
puts in the heart of the culpable ; and, in order to represent 
these inexpressible griefs, his style acquires a degree of energy 
not expected from him, and found in no other. But when, 
delivered from these frightful pictures, he can allow his placid 
and beneficent imagination to repose upon the dwelling-place 
of the just, then are heard tones which the human voice has 
never equalled, and something celestial escapes from his soul 



136 WORKS OF FENELON. 

intoxicated with the joy that he describes. These ideas are 
absolutely foreign to the antique genius ; it is the ecstasy of 
Christian charity ; it is a religion wholly of love, interpreted 
by the sweet and tender soul of Fenelon ; it is the pure love 
given as a reward to the just, in the Elysium of mythology. 
So, when in our days a celebrated writer sought to retrace the 
Christian paradise, he must have felt more than once that he 
had been preceded by Fenelon ; and in spite of the efforts of 
a rich imagination, and the easier and freer employment of 
Christian ideas, he was obliged to throw himself back upon 
less happy images, and merited only the second rank. The 
Elysium of Fenelon is one of the creations of modern genius ; 
nowhere does the French language appear more flexible and 
more melodious. The style of " Telemachus" has been subject- 
ed to much criticism ; Voltaire has given an example of it with 
taste. It is certain that the diction so natural, so sweetly ani- 
mated, sometimes so energetic and bold, is intermingled with 
feeble and languishing details ; but they disappear in the 
happy facility of the style. The interest of the poem carries 
the reader along ; and great beauties reanimate and transport 
him. As to those who are offended at some words repeated, 
at some negligent constructions, let them understand that 
beauty of language does not consist in a severe and careful cor- 
rectness, but in a choice of simple, happy, expressive words, — - 
in a free and varied harmony that accompanies style, and sus- 
tains it as the accent sustains the voice, — in a sweet glow 
everywhere diffused, as the soul and life of discourse. 

The Adventures of Aristinous* breathe that melting charm 
which is given to but few men — to Virgil, to Racine, to Fene- 
lon. In this morceau of a few pages, one would divine the au- 
thor of "Telemachus," as in the Dialogue of Eucrates and Sylla 
we recognize Montesquieu. Only to really superior men be- 
longs the power of thus embracing, in a very narrow compass, 
the essay of all their genius. After " Telemachus," the most im- 
portant work of Fenelon, in subject and extent, is the Treatise 

1 Aventures (P Aristinow. 



NOTICE OF FENELON, BY VILLEMALST. 137 

on the Existence of God} We do not find in it the profundity 
and the logic of Clarke. Fenelon employs the argument of 
final causes, which is very favorable to descriptive imagina- 
tion ; he scatters the treasures of eloquence ; he paints nature, 
whose richness and colors he equals with the splendor of his 
style ; often he gives expression to that abundance of tender 
and passionate sentiments which is the natural language of his 
heart. Some passages are animated with that luminous and 
weighty logic of which he gave so many examples in his con- 
troversy with Bossuet. It is perhaps found in the highest 
degree, and freest from ornaments, in his Letters on Religion? 
a model of sincere and convincing discussion. In fine, as style, 
according to the expression of one of the ancients, is the phys- 
iognomy of the soul, all the works of Fenelon bear the stamp 
of a rare and pathetic genius. 

His style has always a recognizable character of simplicity, 
grace, and sweetness, whether in the passionate flights, in the 
eloquently mystic language of his Entretiens affectifs ; whether 
in the gravity of his Directions for the Conscience of a King 1 ; 
or in the marvellous fecundity, subtilty, and noble elegance of 
his polemical theology. His style is never that of a man 
whose object is to write ; it is that of a man possessed of the 
truth, who expresses it as he feels it at the bottom of his soul. 
And although in our age we most admire careful composi- 
tion, in which the labor is more perceptible, and the phrases, 
formed with more effort, appear to contain more thought ; 
although the energetic diction of Rousseau appears to many 
judges xhe most perfect model, we may believe that the style 
of Fenelon, more in accordance with the character of our 
language, supposes a rarer and happier genius. 

i Traite de V existence de Dieu. 3 Lettres sui Religion. 

* Directions pour le Conscience aVun Box. 



CRITICAL OPINIONS 



FENELON AND HIS WORKS, 



Sir James Mackintosh, speaking of the controversy be- 
tween Fenelon and Bossuet, in his Dissertation on the Progress 
of Ethical Philosophy, says : " Never were two great men 
more unlike. Fenelon in his writings exhibits more of the 
qualities which predispose to religious feelings, than any other 
equally conspicuous person ; — a mind so pure as steadily to 
contemplate supreme excellence ; a heart capable of being 
touched and affected by the contemplation ; a gentle and mod- 
est spirit, not elated by the privilege, but seeing its own want 
of worth as it came nearer to such brightness, and disposed 
to treat with compassionate forbearance those errors in others, 
of which it felt a humbling consciousness. Bossuet was rather 
a greater minister in the ecclesiastical commonwealth; em- 
ploying knowledge, eloquence, argument, the energy of his 
character, the influence and even the authority of his station, 
to vanquish opponents, to extirpate revolters, and, sometimes 
with a patrician firmness, to withstand the dictatorial encroach- 
ment of the Roman pontiff on the spiritual aristocracy of 
France." 

Hallam thus speaks of " Telemachus :" " The Telemaque of 
Fenelon, after being suppressed in France, appeared in Holland 
clandestinely, without the author's consent, in 1699. It is 
needless to say that it soon obtained the admiration of Europe ; 



140 WORKS OF FENELON. 

and, perhaps, there is no book in the French language that 
has been more read. Fenelon seems to have conceived that, 
metre not being essential, as he assumed, to poetry, he had, 
by imitating the Odyssey in Telemaque, produced an epic of 
as legitimate a character as his model. But the boundaries 
between epic poetry, especially such er^cs as the Odyssey, and 
romance were only perceptible by the employment of verse in 
the former ; no elevation of character, no ideality of concep- 
tion, no charm of imagery or emotion, had been denied to 
romance. The language of poetry had for two centuries been 
seized for its use. Telemaque must therefore take its place 
among romances; but still it is true that no romance had 
breathed so classical a spirit, none had abounded so much with 
the richness of poetical language, — much, in fact, of Homer, 
Virgil, and Sophocles having been woven in with no other 
change than verbal translation, — nor had any preserved such 
dignity in its circumstances, such beauty, harmony, and noble- 
ness in its diction. It would be as idle to say that Fenelon 
was indebted to D'Urfe and Calprenede, as to deny that some 
degree of resemblance may be found in their poetical prose. 
The one belonged to the morals of chivalry, generous but ex- 
aggerated ; the other to those of wisdom and religion. The 
one had been forgotten, because its tone is false ; the other is 
ever admired, and is only less regarded, because it is true in 
excess, — because it contains too much of what we know. Tele- 
maque, like some other of Fenelon's writings, is to be con- 
sidered in reference to its object; an object of all the noblest, 
being to form the character of one to whom many must look 
up for their welfare, but still very different from the inculca- 
tion of profound truth. The beauties of Telemaque are very 
numerous; the descriptions, and, indeed, the whole tone of 
the book, have a charm of grace something like the pictures 
of Guido ; but there is also a certain languor which steals over 
us in reading ; and, though there is no real want of variety in 
the narration, it reminds us so continually of its source, the 
Homeric legends, as to become rather monotonous. The 
abandonment of verse has produced too much diffuseness ; it 



YAKI0U3 CRITICAL OPINIONS. 141 

will be observed, if we look attentively, that where Homer is 
circumstantial, Fenelon is more so ; in this he sometimes ap- 
proaches the minuteness of the romancers. But these defects 
are more than compensated by the moral and even aesthetic 
excellence of this romance." 

Dr. Hugh Blair, in one of his Lectures on the Epic Poets, 
thus speaks of the same work : " In reviewing the epic poets, 
it were unjust to make no mention of the amiable author 
of the Adventures of Telemachus. This work, though not 
composed in verse, is justly entitled to be held a poem. The 
measured poetical prose in which it is written is remarkably 
harmonious, and gives the style nearly as much elevation as 
the French language is capable of supporting, even in regular 
verse. 

" The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived, and 
is deficient neither in epic grandeur nor unity of object. The 
author has entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas 
of the ancient poets, particularly into the ancient mythology, 
which retains more dignity and makes a better figure in his 
hands, than in those of any modern poet. His descriptions 
are rich and beautiful, especially of the softer and calmer 
scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best suited ; such 
as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a 
country flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness 
and tenderness in several of the pictures of this kind which 
he has ffiven. 

" The best executed part of the work is the first six books, 
in which Telemachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The 
narrative throughout them is lively and interesting; afterwards, 
especially in the last twelve books, it becomes more tedious and 
languid ; and in the warlike adventures which are attempted, 
there is a great defect of vigor. The chief objection against 
mis work being classed with epic poems, arises from the minute 
details of virtuous policy into which the author in some places 
enters ; and from the discourses and instructions of Meritor, 
which recur upon us too often, and too much in the strain of 
commonplace morality. Though these were well suited to 



142 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the main design of the author, which was to form the mind of 
a young prince, yet they seem not congruous to the nature of 
epic poetry, the object of which is to improve us by means of 
actions, characters, and sentiments, rather than by delivering 
professed and formal instructions. 

" Several of the epic poets have described a descent into 
hell ; and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible 
world, we may observe the gradual refinement of men's notions 
concerning a state of future rewards and punishments. The 
descent of Ulysses into hell, in Homer's Odyssey, presents to 
us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object. The scene is 
laid in the country of the Cimmerians, which is always cov- 
ered with clouds and darkness, at the extremity of the ocean. 
When the spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely 
know whether Ulysses is above ground or below it. None of 
the ghosts, even of the heroes, appear satisfied with their con- 
dition in the other world ; and when Ulysses endeavors to 
comfort Achilles by reminding him of the illustrious figure 
which he must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells 
him that all such speeches are idle ; for he would rather be a 
day-laborer on earth, than have command of all the dead. 
. " In the sixth book of the ^neid, we discern a much 
greater refinement of ideas, corresponding to the progress 
which the world had then made in philosophy. The objects 
there delineated are more clear and distinct, and more grand 
and awful. The separate mansions of good and bad spirits, 
with the punishments of the one and the employments and 
happiness of the other, are finely described, and in consistency 
with the most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon 
makes Telemacfnus pay to the Shades is much more philosoph- 
ical than Virgil's. He employs the same fables and the same 
mythology ; but we find the ancient mythology refined by 
the knowledge of the true religion, and adorned with that 
beautiful enthusiasm for which Fenelon was so distinguished. 
His account of the happiness of the just is an excellent de- 
scription in the mystic strain, and very expressive of the genius 
and spirit of the author." 



VARIOUS CRITICAL OPINIONS. 143 

Dr. Channing, in reviewing a book entitled " Selections from 
the Writings of Fenelon," says : 

" We welcome a book from Fenelon ; and we do so, because, 
if not a profound he was an original thinker, and because, 
though a Catholic, he was essentially free. He wrote from his 
own mind, and seldom has a purer mind tabernacled in flesh. 
He professed to believe in an infallible Church ; but he listened 
habitually to the voice of God within him, and speaks of this 
in language so strong as to have given the Quakers some plea 
for ranking him among themselves. So little did he confine 
himself to established notions that he drew upon himself the 
censures of his Church, and, like some other Christians whom 
we could name, has been charged with a refined Deism. His 
works have the great charm of coming fresh from the soul. 
He wrote from experience, and hence, though he often speaks 
in language which must seem almost a foreign one to men of 
the world, yet he always speaks in a tone of reality. That he 
has excesses we mean not to deny, but they are of a kind 
which we regard with more than indulgence, almost with ad- 
miration 

"Fenelon saw far into the human heart, and especially into 
the lurkings of self-love. He looked with a piercing eye 
through the disguises of sin ; but he knew sin, not as most 
men do, by bitter experience of its power, so much as by his 
knowledge and experience of virtue. Deformity was revealed 
to him by his refined perceptions and intense love of moral 
beauty. The light which he carried with him into the dark 
corners of the human heart, and by which he laid open its 
most hidden guilt, was that of celestial goodness. Hence, 
though the severest of censors, he is the most pitying. Not a 
tone of asperity escapes him. He looks on human error with 
an angel's tenderness, with tears which an angel might shed, 
and thus reconciles and binds us to our race, at the very mo- 
ment of revealing its corruptions. 

" That Fenelon's views of human nature were dark, too 
dark, we learn from almost every page of his writings ; and at 
this we cannot wonder. He was early thrown into the veiy 



144 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Court from which Rochefoucauld drew his celebrated Maxims — ■ 
perhaps the very spot, above all others on the face of the earth, 
distinguished and disgraced by selfishness, hypocrisy, and 
intrigue. When we think of Fenelon in the palace of Louis 
the Fourteenth, it reminds us of a seraph sent on a divine 
commission into the abodes of the lost ; and when we recol- 
lect that in that atmosphere he composed his Telemachus, we 
doubt whether the records of the world furnish stronger evi- 
dence of the power of a divine virtue to turn temptation into 
glory and strength, and to make even crowned and prosperous 

vice a means of triumph and exaltation " 

The Edinburgh Review, vol. 107, in an article upon a work 
entitled Mimoires et Journal sur la Vie et les Ouvrages de 
Bossuet, says : " Bossuet was born with all the vigor and fixity 
of age ; Fenelon retained until death all the generous glow and 
boundless elasticity of youth. Bossuet preached the doctrine 
of fear, — Fenelon that of love. Bossuet' s mind was petrified 
by ever looking back, — that of Fenelon was directed ever for- 
ward, in spite of the taunts and despair of skeptics and unbe- 
lievers. The one loved immutability, the other progress. In 
the heart of the one ruled mistrust, in that of the other confi- 
dence. Bossuet was a Conservative, Fenelon a Liberal. The 
genius of the former was Hebrew and Roman, that of the latter 
Grecian and Evangelical. The one had the stern majesty of 
a prophet by Michael Angelo, the other the ecstatic beauty of 
a martyr by Guido Reni." 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 145 



THE WORKS OF FENELON. 



I. Treatise on the Education of Girls (Traite de V Education des Filles), 
1681-1087. 

II. Treatise on the Office of Pastors {Traite du Ministere des Pasteurs), 
1688. in 12mo. 

III. Explanation of the Maxims of the Saints (Explication des Max- 
imes des Saints), 1697, in 12mo. 

IV. Adventures of Telemachus (Aventures de Telemaque), 1699, the 
editions of which are innumerable. 

V. Dialogues of the Dead (Dialogues des Marts, Composes pour I' Educa- 
tion d'un Prince), 1712, in 12mo. 

VI. Dialogues on Eloquence in general, and on that of the Pulpit in 
particular, with a Letter to the French Academy (Dialogues sur V Elo- 
quence en general et sur celh de la chaire en particidier, avec une Lettre d 
V Academie Francaise), 1718, in 12mo. 

VII. Examination of a King's Conscience (Examen de la Conscience 
d'un Roi), 1734. 

VIII. Letters on Different Subjects, pertaining to Eeligion and 
Metaphysics (Lettres sur divers sujets, concernant la Religion et la M'eta- 
physique), 1718. 

IX. Demonstration of the Existence of God (Demonstration de V Ex- 
istence de Dieu), 1713. 

X. Selections from Sermons on Different Subjects (Recueil de Sermons 
choisis sur differents sujets), 1710. 

XL Spiritual Works ((Euvres Spirituelles). 

The only complete edition of Fenelon's works is said to be 
that of Versailles, 34 vols, in 8vo, begun at Versailles, in 1820, 
by Lebel, as publisher, and finished in Paris in 1830 by Leclerc. 
In the edition of Besancon (27 vols, in 8vo, 1830), more than 
half of the correspondence is omitted. In 1782 the Assembly 
of the Clergy of France appropriated forty thousand livres to 
defray the expenses of publishing the works of Fenelon. The 
preparation of the edition was intrusted first to the Abbe 
Gallard, and ^afterwards to the Abbe de Querbeuf ; but, from 

Vol. L— 7 



146 WORKS OF FENELON. 

whatever cause, in this collection of Fenelon's writings (9 vols, 
in 4to, Paris, 1787-1792), the reader will seek in vain for 
those on Quietism and Jansenism, his Explication des Maximes, 
and his Mandements. The edition of Toulouse (19 vols. 12mo, 
1809-1811) contains Querbeuf's Life of Fenelon, and four In- 
structions Pastorales, and an Abridgement of the Lives of the 
Ancient Philosophers, omitted in the previous edition. A 
good selection from Fenelon's works was published by Perisse 
Freres, Paris, 1842, 4 vols. 8vo. Didot Freres have published 
the works of Fenelon in three large 8vo. volumes, which is a 
cheap (30 franc) and very good edition. The edition of Ver- 
sailles mentioned above is the best. 

Of the innumerable editions of " Telemachus," that of Le- 
fevre (1 vol. 8vo, Paris, 1853) is perhaps the best. 

The most complete biographical account of Fenelon is that 
given by M. de Bausset in his Histoire de Fenelon (3 vols. 8vo, 
1808). The Abbe Gosselin, director of the Seminary of St. 
Sulpice, published an interesting book in 1843, entitled, Lit- 
erary History of Fenelon, or Historical and Literary Review 
of his Writings (Paris, 1 vol. 8vo). 

We intend in our collection of the French classics, to give 
either carefully revised or new translations of all the works of 
Fenelon tnat have an enduring interest. 



ADVENTURES 



TELEMACH'CS. 



BOOK I. 

Telemachus, conducted by Minerva under the likeness of Mentor, lands, 
after having suffered shipwreck, upon the island of the goddess Calypso, 
who is still regretting the departure of Ulysses. The goddess receives 
him favorably, conceives a passion for him, offers him immortality, and 
inquires after his adventures. He recounts his voyage to Pylos and 
Lacedsmon ; his shipwreck on the coast of Sicily ; the danger he was 
in of being offered as a sacrifice to the manes of Anchises ; the assistance 
which Mentor and he gave Acestes against an incursion of barbarians, 
and the gratitude of the king, who, to reward their service, gave them 
a Tyrian vessel, that they might return to their country. 

Calypso was unable to console herself for the departure of 
Ulysses. 1 She regretted her immortality, 2 as that which could 
only perpetuate affliction, and aggravate calamity by despair. 
Her grotto no more echoed with the music of her voice ; and 
her nymphs wa ted at a distance, with timidity and silence. 
She often wandered alone along the borders of her island, 
amid the luxuriance of a perpetual spring ; but the beauties 
that bloomed around her, instead of soothing her grief, only 
impressed more strongly upon her mind the memory of Ulys- 
ses, who had been so often the companion of her walks. Some- 
times she stood motionless upon the beach ; and while her 
eyes were fixed on that part of the horizon, where the lessen- 



1 Ulysses had left Calypso by order of Jupiter. See the fifth book of 
Homer's Odyssey. 

2 Venus, in the idyl of Bion on the death of Adonis, complains of living 
and of being a goddess, and of not being able to follow her lover. " Oh 
wretchedness ! that I must live and be divine, and unable to follow thee !" 
Calypso herself will say further on (Book vi.), "My divinity no more 
serves me but to render my unhappiness eternal. Would that I could 
end my misery with death !" Fenelon imitates the discourse of Inachus 
in Ovid (Metam., i. 661) : " Nor is it possible for me to end grief so great 
by death ; but it is a detriment to be a god ; and the gate of death being 
shut against me, extends my grief to eternal ages." 



150 WORKS OF FENELON. 

ing bark of the hero at length disappeared, they overflowed 
with tears. 

Here she was one day surprised with the sudden appearance 
of a shipwreck : broken benches and oars lay scattered about 
upon the sand ; a rudder, a mast, and some cordage were 
floating near the shore. Soon after, she perceived at a distance 
two men, one of whom appeared to be aged, and in the other, 
although a youth, she discovered a strong resemblance of 
Ulysses. The same benevolence and dignity were united in 
his aspect ; his stature was equally lofty, and his port equally 
majestic. The goddess knew immediately that this was Te- 
lema'chus ; but, notwithstanding the penetration of divine sa- 
gacity, she could not discover who was his companion ; for it 
is the prerogative of superior deities to conceal whatever they 
please from those of a lower class ; and it was the pleasure of 
Minerva, who accompanied Telemachus in the likeness of 
Mentor, to be concealed from Calypso. 

Calypso, however, rejoiced in the happy shipwreck, which 
had restored Ulysses to her wishes in the person of his son. 
She advanced to meet him ; and, affecting not to know him, 
she said : " How hast thou presumed to land on this island ? 
Knowest thou not, that from my dominions no daring intruder 
departs unpunished?" By this menace she hoped to conceal 
the joy which glowed in her bosom, and which she could not 
prevent from sparkling in her countenance. 

" Whoever thou art," ' replied Telemachus ; " whether thou 
art indeed a goddess, or whether, with all the appearance ol 
divinity, thou art yet mortal ; canst thou regard with insensi- 
bility the misfortunes of a son, who, committing his life to the 
caprice of the winds and waves in search of a father, has suf- 
fered shipwreck against these rocks ?" " Who then is thy 



1 The discourse of Ulysses to Nausicaa (Odyss., vi. 149) begins with a 
similar thought : " I supplicate thee, queen, whether thou art some 
goddess or mortal." iEneas, in Virgil (jEneid, i. 327), says to Venus, 
whom he meets without knowing her : " virgin, by what name shall 1 
address thee ? for thou wearest not the looks of a mortal, nor sounds thy 
voice human. thou a goddess surely !" 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK I. 151 

father whom thou seekest ?" inquired the goddess. " He is 
one of the confederate kings," answered Telemachus, " who, 
after a siege of ten years, laid Troy in ashes, and his name is 
Ulysses ; a name which he has rendered famous by his prow- 
ess, and yet more by his wisdom, not only through all Greece, 
but to the remotest boundaries of Asia. He is now a wan- 
derer on the deep, the sport of tempests which no force can 
resist, and the prey of dangers which no sagacity can elude. 
His country seems to fly before him. 1 Penelope, his wife, de- 
spairs at Ithaca of his return. I, though equally destitute of 
hope, pursue him through all the perils that he has passed, and 
seek him upon every coast. I seek him ; but, alas ! perhaps 
the sea has already closed over him forever ! goddess, 
compassionate our distress ; and, if thou knowest what the 
fates have wrought, either to save or destroy Ulysses, vouch- 
safe this knowledge to Telemachus his son I" 

Such force of eloquence, such maturity of wisdom, and such 
blooming youth, filled the bosom of Calypso with astonishment 
and tenderness : she gazed upon him with a fixed attention ; 
but her eyes were still unsatisfied, and she remained some time 
silent. At length she said : " We will acquaint you, Telema- 
chus, with the adventures of your father. But the story will 
be long : it is now time that you should repair that strength 
by rest, which has been exhausted by labor. Come into my 
dwelling, where I will receive you as my son ; come, — you 
shall be my comfort in this solitude ; and, if you are not vol- 
untarily wretched, I will be your felicity." 

Telemachus followed the goddess, who was encircled by a 
crowd of young nymphs, among whom she was distinguished 
by the superiority of her stature, 2 as the towering summit of a 



1 Fenelon seems to remember those verses which Virgil (^Eneid, v. 626) 
puts in the mouth of Beroe : "The seventh summer since the destruction 
of Troy is already rolled away, while we, having measured all lands and 
seas, so many inhospitable rocks and barbarous climes, are driven about; 
while along the wide ocean we pursue an ever-fleeing Italy, and are tossed 
on the waves." 

a Homer (Odyss., vi. 107), describing Diana in the midst of her nymphs, 



152 WORKS OF FENELON. 

lofty oak is seen, in the midst of a forest, above all the trees 
that surround it. He was struck with the splendor of her 
beauty, the rich purple of her long and flowing robe, her hair 
that was tied with graceful 1 negligence behind her, and the 
vivacity and softness that were mingled in her eyes. Mentor 
followed Telemachus, modestly silent, and looking downwards. 
When they arrived at the entrance of the grotto, Telema- 
chus was surprised to discover, under the appearance of rural 
simplicity, whatever could captivate the sight. There was, 
indeed, neitl er gold, nor silver, nor marble ; no decorated 
columns, 2 no paintings, no statues were to be seen; but the 
grotto consisted of several vaults cut in the rock; the roof 
was embellished with shells and pebbles; and the want of 
tapestry was supplied by the luxuriance of a young vine, which 
extended its branches equally on every side. 3 Here the heat 

says that she is a head taller than all : " Above all by her head and her 
forehead, for she is easily known, but all of them are fair." Virgil, speak- 
ing of Turnns (JEneid, vii. 784), uses the same image: "Turnus himself, a 
comely personage, moves on in the van, wielding his arms, and by a full head 
overtops the rest." Milton, too, has borrowed the image {Par. Lout, ix. 386): 
—"but Delia's self 
In gait surpassed, and goddess-like deport." 
i " For whom dost bind thy golden hair, plain in thy neatness."— Hor- 
ace, I., Od. v. 

2 " Nor ivory, nor fretted ceiling adorned with gold, glitters in my house : 
no Hymettian beams rest upon pillars, cut out of the extreme parts of Af- 
rica."— Hor. II., Od. xviii. 

3 These and some of the following details are taken from Homer's de- 
scription of Calypso's grotto (Odyss., v. 60-70): " He came to the great 
cave in which the fair-haired nymph dwelt, and he found her within. A 
large fire was burning on the hearth, and at a distance the smell of well- 
cleft cedar, and of frankincense, that were burning/, shed odor through the 
island : but she within was singing with a beautiful voice, and going over 
the web, woven with a golden shuttle. But a flourishing wood sprung up 
around her grot — alder, and poplar, and sweet-smelling cypress. There, 
also, birds with spreading wings slept, owls, and hawks, and wide-tongued 
crows of the ocean, to which maritime employments are a care. There a 
vine in its prime was spread about the hollow grot, and it flourished with 
clusters. But four fountains flowed in succession with white water, turned 
near one another, in different ways ; but around these flourished soft mead- 
ows of violets and of parsley. There, indeed, even an immortal coming 
would admire it when he beheld, and would be delighted in his mind." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK I. 153 

of the sun was tempered by the freshness of the breeze ; the 
rivulets that with soothing murmurs wandered through meadows 
of intermingled violets and amaranth, 1 formed innumerable 
baths that were pure and transparent as crystal ; the verdant 
carpet which nature had spread around the grotto was adorned 
with a thousand flowers. At a small distance, there was a 
wood of those trees that in every season unfold new blossoms, 
which diffuse ambrosial fragrance, and ripen into golden fruit. 2 
In this wood, which was impervious to the rays of the sun, 3 
and heightened the beauty of the adjacent meadows by an 
agreeable contrast of light and shade, nothing was to be 
heard but the song of birds, or the sound of water, which falling 
from the summit of a rock, was dashed into foam below, where, 
forming a small rivulet, it glided hastily over the meadow. 4 

The grotto of Calypso was situated on the declivity of a 
hill. It commanded a prospect of the sea, sometimes smooth, 
peaceful, and limpid ; sometimes swelling into mountains, and 
breaking with idle rage against the shore. 5 At another view a 
river was discovered, in which were many islands, surrounded 
with limes that were covered with flowers, and poplars that 
raised their heads to the clouds. The streams which formed 
those islands seemed to stray through the fields with a kind of 
sportful wantonness : some rolled along in translucent waves 
with a tumultuous rapidity ; some glided away in silence with 



1 It is probable tbat Fenelon has used the word amaranth, without attach- 
ing to it any definite meaning, simply designating by it any agreeable 
flower. 

2 An orange grove. 

3 " A dense thicket, which neither the force of the moist-blowing winds 
breathed through, nor did the shining sun strike it with its beams, nor did 
the showers penetrate through it, so thick was it." — Odyss., xix. 440. 

4 " A gentle rivulet swiftly running through the mead." — Virg. Geor., 
iv. 19. 

5 "Leave the mad billows to buffet the shores." — Virg. JEcl., ix. 43. 
" When the sea was aroused, and an enormous mass of waters seemed to 
bend and to grow in the form of a mountain, and to send forth a roaring 
noise, and to burst asunder at its very summit."— Ovid, Metam., xv. 
508. This hyperbolical comparison has been often employed, both b) poets 
und by prose writers. 

7 



154 WORKS OF FENELON. 

a motion that was scarcely perceptible ; others, after a long cir- 
cuit, turned back, as if they wished to issue again from their 
source, and were unwilling to quit the paradise 1 through which 
they flowed. The distant hills and mountains hid their sum- 
mits in the blue vapors that hovered. over them, and diversified 
the horizon with strange forms that were equally pleasing and 
romantic. The mountains that were less remote, were covered 
with vines, the branches of which were interwoven with each 
other, and hung down in festoons. Grapes, which surpassed in 
lustre the richest purple, were too exuberant to be concealed 
by the foliage, and the branches bowed under the weight of 
the fruit. The fig, trie olive, the pomegranate, and other trees 
without number, overspread the plain ; so that the whole 
country had the appearance of a garden, of nnnite variety 
and boundless extent. 

Calypso, having displayed this profusion of nature's beauty 
to Telemachus, said to him : " Go now, and refresh yourself, 
and change your apparel, which is wet. I will afterwards see 
you again, and relate such things as shall affect your heart." 
She then caused him to enter, with his friend, into the most 
secret recess of a grotto adjoining her own. Here the nymphs 
had already kindled a fire with some billets of cedar, which 
perfumed the place, and had left change of apparel for the new 
guests. 

Telemachus, perceiving that a tunic of the finest wool, 
whiter than snow, and a purple robe embroidered with gold, 
were intended for him, contemplated the magnificence of his 
dress with a pleasure natural to a youth. 

Mentor perceived his weakness, and reproved it. " Are these 
then," said he, " Telemachus, such thoughts as become the 
son of Ulysses ? Be rather studious to appropriate the charac- 



1 The French poet, Quinault, in his tra&edy of Armide (II. 3), which 
Voltaire called a masterpiece, and which inspired Gliick while composing 
his opera of the same name, precedes Fenelon in this beautifu imaginative 
picture : 

" This river gently flows, 
Regretfully leaving a region so charming." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK I. 155 

ter of thy father, and to surmount the persecutions of fortune. 
The youth who, like a woman, loves to adorn his person, has 
renounced all claim to wisdom and to glory : glory is due to 
him only who can bear pain, and trample pleasure under his 
feet." 

Telemachus answered with a sigh : " May the gods destroy 
me, rather than suffer me to be enslaved by voluptuous effemi- 
nacy ! No ; the son of Ulysses shall never be seduced by 
the charms of enervating and inglorious ease ! But how 
gracious is heaven, to have directed us, destitute and ship- 
WTecked, to this goddess, or this mortal, who has loaded us 
with benefits !" 

" Fear rather," replied Mentor, " lest her wiles should over- 
whelm thee with ruin ; fear her deceitful blandishments more 
than the rocks on which thou hast suffered shipwreck ; for 
shipwreck and death are less dreadful than those pleasures by 
which virtue is subverted. Believe not the tales which she 
shall relate. The presumption of youth hopes all things from 
itself, and, however impotent, believes it has power over every 
event ; it dreams of security in the midst of danger, and listens 
to subtilty without suspicion. Beware of Calypso's seducing 
eloquence, which, like a serpent, glides beneath flowers; — 
dread the concealed poison ! Trust not thyself, but confide 
implicitly in my counsel." 

They then returned to Calypso, who was waiting for them. 
Her nymphs, who were dressed in white, and had their hair 
braided, set before them a repast, which, though it was simple, 
and consisted only of such game as they had either taken with 
their nets, or killed in the chase, was yet of exquisite taste, 
and served up with elegance. Wine, more richly flavored 
than nectar, was poured from large silver vases, and sparkled 
in cups of gold that were wreathed with flowers ; and baskets 
were heaped with all the variety of fruit that is promised by 
spring and bestowed by autumn. In the mean time four of 
the attendant nymphs began to sing. Their first theme was 
the battle of the Gods and Titans ; then they celebrated the 
loves of Jupiter and Semele ; the birth of Bacchus, and his 



156 WORKS OF FENELON. 

education under old Silenus ; the race of Atalanta 1 with Ilip- 
pomenes, by whom she was conquered with golden apples from 
the gardens of the Hesperides : 2 the wars of Troy were re- 
served to the last ; the prowess and the wisdom of Ulysses 
were extolled to the heavens. The principal nymph, whose 
name was Leucothoe, to the harmonious voices of the chorus 
joined the music of her lyre. 

When Telemachus heard the name of his father, the tears 
which stole down his cheeks added new lustre to his beauty. 3 
But Calypso, perceiving that he was too sensibly touched, and 
neglected to eat, made a signal to her nymphs. They imme- 
diately changed the subject to the battle of the Centaurs with 
the Lapithse, and the descent of Orpheus to bring back his 
Eurydice from hell. 

When the repast was ended, Calypso took Telemachus aside, 
and addressed him thus : " Thou seest, O son of the great 
Ulysses, with what favor I have received thee. Know, that I 
am immortal : no human foot profanes this island unpunished; 
nor could even shipwreck avert my indignation from thee, if 
my heart were not touched with more than thy misfortunes. 
Thy father was equally distinguished by my favor ; but, alas ! 
he knew not how to improve the advantage. I detained him 
long in this island ; and here he might have lwed forever in a 
state of immortality 4 with me ; but a fond desire of returning 



1 This was the Boeotian Atalanta. When her father desired her to marry, 
she required every suitor to contend with her in the foot-race, because she 
was the most swift-footed of mortals. If he conquered her, he was to be 
rewarded with her hand ; if he was conquered, he was to be put to death. 
She conquered many suitors, but was at length overcome by Hippomenes 
with the assistance of Venus. The goddess of love had given him three 
golden apples, gathered in the gardens of the Hesperides, and during the 
race he dropped them one after the other: their beauty charmed Atalanta 
so much, that she could not abstain from picking them up, and Hippome- 
nes thus gained the goal before her. She accordingly became his wife. 

2 "Then he sings the virgin, charmed with the apples of the Hesperi- 
des."— Virg. XeL t vi. 61. 

3 La Fontaine, in his poem of Adonis, paints Venus weeping, and adding 
lustre to her beauty with her tears. As we might expect, he has been 
preceded by Ovid. 

* Calypso says to Mercury, speaking of Ulysses (Odyss., v. 135) : " Him 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK I. 157 

to his wretched country blinded him to the prospect of supe- 
rior felicity. Thou seest what he has lost for Ithaca, to which 
'is can never return. He resolved to leave me, and departed ; 
but a tempest revenged the insult, and the vessel in which he 
had embarked, having been long the sport of the storm, war 
at last swallowed up in the deep. Let this example influence 
thy conduct. All hopes of again seeing thy father, and of suc- 
ceeding to his throne, are now at an end. Do not too deeply 
regret his loss, since thou hast found a goddess who offers thee 
superior dominion, and more permanent felicity." 

Calypso, after this declaration, exerted all her eloquence to 
display the happiness she had conferred upon Ulysses; — she 
recounted his adventures 1 in the Cave of Polyphemus, the 
Cyclop, and in the country of Antiphates, king of the Lsestry- 
gones ; — she forgot neither what happened to him in the island 
of Circe, the daughter of the Sun, nor the dangers of his pas- 
sage between Scylla and Charybdis. She described the tem- 
pest that had been raised against him by Neptune, after his 
departure from her, in which she insinuated that he had per- 
ished, concealing his arrival in the island of the Pheacians. 

Telemachus, who had too hastily congratulated himself upon 
the bounty of Calypso, now perceived the evil of her designs, 
and the wisdom of that counsel which had been just given him 
by Mentor. He answered in few words : " Forgive, god- 
dess, my sorrow ; my heart is now susceptible only of regret ; 
but I may hereafter be again capable of felicity. Suffer me 
now to pay at least a few tears to the memory of my father : 
thou knovvest, better than his son, how well Tie deserves the 
tribute." 

Calypso, perceiving that it was not now her interest to press 
him further, feigned to participate in his sorrow, and to regret 
the fate of Ulysses. But, that she might gain a more perfect 
knowledge of the means by which his affections were to be 



indeed I loved and nourished, and I said that I would make him immortal 
and free from old a^e." 

1 These different adventures are recounted in the Odyssey, ix. x. xii. 



158 WORKS OF FENELON. 

engaged, she inquired the particulars of his shipwreck, and by 
what accident he had been thrown upon her coast. " The sto?} 
of my misfortunes," said he, " will be too long." " No, no," 
responded Calypso, " I am impatient to hear it ; indulge me, 
therefore, without delay." Telemachus long refused ; but she 
continued her solicitations, and at length he complied. 

" I set out from Ithaca 1 to inquire after my father of those 
princes who had returned from the siege of Troy. The suitors 
of Penelope, my mother, were surprised at my departure ; be- 
cause from them, whom I knew to be perfidious, I had con- 
cealed my purpose. Neither Nestor, whom I saw at Pylos, 
nor Menelaus, who received me with affection at Lacedemon, 
knew whether my father was among the living or dead. Im- 
patient of perpetual suspense and uncertainty, I resolved to go 
into Sicily, whither my father was said to have been driven 
by contrary winds. But the prudent Mentor, who is here the 
companion of my fortunes, opposed the execution of so rash a 
design ; he represented my danger, upon the one hand, from the 
Cyclops, the gigantic monsters who riot on human flesh, and, 
on the other, from the fleet of JEneas and the Trojans, who 
were hovering about those coasts. 'The Trojans,' said he, 
1 are irritated against all the Greeks ; but, above all, against 
Ulysses, whose son, therefore, they wo aid rejoice to destroy. 
Return then to Ithaca. Perhaps your father, who is beloved 
by the gods, may have returned already. But if heaven has 
decreed his death, if he shall see Ithaca no more, it is fit that 
you return to avenge him and to deliver your mother ; to dis- 
play your wisdom to attending nations ; and to let all Greece 
behold, in Telemachus, a sovereign not less worthy of the 
throne than Ulysses.' 

" This counsel, which was the voice of reason, I rejected, and 
listened only to the suggestions of my passions ; but such was 



1 Telemachus, setting out from Ithaca by the counsel of Minerva, went 
first to Pylos, then to Sparta, in order to make inquiries of Nestor and 
Menelaus about his father. See the Odyssey, ii. iii. iv. In Homer, the 
voyago of Telemachus ends at Sparta. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK I. 159 

the affection of Mentor for me, that he embarked with me for 
that voyage, which, in the folly of my presumption, I under- 
took contrary to his advice ; and the gods, perhaps, permitted 
the fault, that the calamity which it drew upon me might teach 
me wisdom." 

While Telemachus had been speaking, Calypso had atten- 
tively considered Mentor, and was suddenly chilled with astonish- 
ment. She imagined that she perceived in him something more 
than human. Not being able to resolve the perplexity of her 
thoughts into any probable determination, the presence of this 
inscrutable being continued to agitate her mind with suspicion 
and dread. Fearing yet more that her confusion should be 
perceived, she said to Telemachus : " Proceed, and gratify my 
curiosity." Telemachus resumed his story thus : 

" We steered some time with a favorable wind for Sicily, 
but at length a tempest overcast the sky, and involved us in 
sudden darkness. 1 By the transient gleams of the lightning 
we perceived other vessels that were exposed to the same 
danger ; and were soon convinced that they were part of the 
Trojan fleet, and were not less to be dreaded by us than 
shoals and rocks. Then, but too late, I perfectly comprehended 
what the ardor of youth had before prevented me from con- 
sidering with sufficient attention. In this dreadful exigence, 
Mentor appeared not only fearless and calm, but more than 
usually cheerful ; he encouraged me to hope, and as he spoke, 
I perceived myself inspired with invincible fortitude. While 
he was directing the navigation of the vessel with the utmost 
tranquillity, the pilot being incapacitated by terror and con- 
fusion, I said to him : 'My dear Mentor, why did I reject your 
advice ? What greater evil can befall me than a confidence in 
my own opinion, at an age which can form no judgment of the 
future, has gained no experience from the past, and knows not 



1 "Tn an instant clouds snatch the heavens and day from the eyes of 
the Trojans ; sable night sits brooding on the sea, thunder roars from pole 
to pole, the sky glares with repeated flashes, and all nature threatens them 
with immediate death."— Virg. JEn., i. 88. 



160 WORKS OF FENELON. 

how to employ the present? If we survive this tempest, I 
will distrust myself as my most dangerous enemy, and confide 
only in Mentor.' 

" Mentor replied with a smile : ' I have no desire to reproacl. 
you with the fault you have committed ; if you have such a 
sense of it as will enable you to repress the violence of desire 
hereafter, I am satisfied. But when danger is past, perhaps 
presumption will return. By courage only can we nuw escape. 
Before we incur danger, we should consider it as formidable ; 
but when it is present, we should treat it with contempt. 
Show thyself worthy of Ulysses, then, and discover a mind 
superior to all the evils which combine against thee.' 

"The candor and magnanimity of Mentor gave me great 
pleasure ; but I was transported with wonder and delight at 
the stratagem by which he delivered us. Just as the clouds 
broke, and the light must in a few minutes have discovered us 
to the Trojans, who were very near, he remarked that one of 
their vessels, which greatly resembled ours, except that the 
stern was decorated with garlands of flowers, had been sepa- 
rated from the rest of the fleet in the storm ; he immediately 
placed ornaments of the same kind at the stern of our vessel, 
and made them fast himself with bandages of the same color 
as those of the Trojans ; he also ordered the rowers to stoop 
over their seats as low as possible, that our enemies might not 
discover them to be Greeks. In this manner he proceeded 
through the midst of their fleet ; and the Trojans, mistaking 
us for their companions which had been missing, shouted as we 
passed. We were some time forced irresistibly along with 
them, but at length found means to linger behind ; and while 
they were driven by the impetuosity of the wind towards 
Africa, 1 we labored at the oar and made our utmost effort to 
land on the neighboring coast of Sicily. 

" Our labor indeed succeeded ; but the port which we sought 
was scarcely less to be dreaded than the fleet which we had 



1 " The weary Trojans direct their course towards the nearest shores, 
and make the coast of Libya." — *d£n,. } i. 157. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK I. 161 

endeavored to avoid ; for on the coast of Sicily we found other 
fugitives from Troy, who had settled there under the govern- 
ment of Acestes,' who was himself of Trojan extraction.* We 
had no sooner landed than these people, imagining either that 
we were inhabitants of some other part of the island, who had 
taken arms to surprise them, or a foreign enemy, who had 
invaded the country, burnt our vessel in the first tumult of 
their rage, and put all our companions to the sword. Mentor 
and myself were spared only that we might be presented to 
Acestes, and that he might learn from us what were our 
designs and whence wz csiue. We entered the city, with our 
nands bound behind 2 as ; and had nothing to expect from this 
respite but that our death would be made the spectacle of a 
criiel people as soon as they should discover us to be Greeks. 

" W^ were brought before Acestes, who was sitting with a 
sceptrs of gold in his hand, administering justice to his people, 
a:.id preparing to assist at a solemn sacrifice. He asked us, 
with a stern voice, the name of our country and the purpose 
of our voyage. Mentor instantly replied : ' We come from 
the coast of the greater Hesperia, 3 and our country is not far 
from thence.' He thus avoided a declaration that we were 
Greeks. But Acestes would hear no more, and concluding 
that we were strangers, who had formed some evil design, 
which we were therefore solicitous to conceal^ he commanded 
that we should be sent into the neighboring forests to serve as 
slaves under those who had the care of his herds. 

" To live upon this condition seemed to me harder than to 
die. I cried out : ' O king, punish us rather with death than 



1 " E.ut Acestes, from a mountain's lofty summit,, struck with the distant 
prospect of their arrival, and at the friendly ships, comes up to them, all 
yongh with javelins, and the hide of an African bear ; whom, begotten by 
the river Crinisius, a Trojan mother bore." — y£n., v. 36. 

2 " In the. mean time, behold, Trojan shepherds, with loud acclamations, 
came dragging to tiie king a youth, whose hands were bound behind 
him. ,, — JEn., ii. 57. 

3 Italy, and more especially that portion of it called Ma.o-na Grecia, is 
designated. Virgil places the tomb of Caieta where the city of Gaeta now 
stands, in Hesperia Magna. — JEn., vii. 7. 



162 WORKS OF FENELON. 

infamy. Know that I am Telemachus, son of the wise Ulysses, 
king of Ithaca ; in search of my father I am bound to every 
shore ; but, in this search, if I am not permitted to succeed, if 
I must never more return to my country, and if I can no longer 
live but as a slave, put an end to my life, and relieve me from 
a burden that I cannot support.' 

" This exclamation inflamed the multitude ; and they imme- 
diately demanded that the son of Ulysses, by whose inhuman 
subtlety Troy had been subverted, should be put to death. 
Acestes then turning to me, cried out: 'I cannot refuse thy 
blood, son of Ulysses, to the manes of those Trcjans with 
whom thy father crowded the banks of Cocytus : thou must 
die, and thy conductor shall perish with thee.' At the same 
instant, an old man proposed to the king that we should be 
offered up on the tomb of Anchises. ' The shade of tha^hero,' 
said he, 'will be gratified with their blood; and even the 
great iEneas, when he shall be told of such a sacrifice, will be 
touched with joy at the zeal of your affection for the supreme 
object of his own.' 

" This proposition was received with a shout of applause, 
and the execution of it was immediately begun. We were 
conducted to the tomb of Anchises, where two altars had been 
prepared ; the hallowed fire was kindled, and the sacrificial 
knife lay before us. They had adorned us, as victims, with 
garlands of flowers ; and the pleadings of compassion were 
overborne by the impetuosity of zeal. But, just at this dread- 
ful crisis, Mentor, with all the calmness of security, demanded 
audience of the king, and addressed him thus : 

" ' Acestes, if the misfortunes of Telemachus, who is yet 
a youth, and has never borne arms against the Trojans, can 
excite no pity in thy breast, at least let thy own danger 
awaken thy attention. The skill that I have acquired ir. 
omens, by which the will of the gods is discovered, enables 
me to foretell, that within three days a nation of barbarians 
will rush upon thee from the mountains, like a flood, to spoil 
thy city and overspread thy country with desolation. Make 
haste to avert the torrent ; arm thy people, and secure within 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK I. 163 

the walls of the city whatever is valuable in the field. 11^ 
when three days have elapsed, my predictions shall appear to 
have been false, let these altars be stained with our blood ; but, 
on the contrary, if it shall be confirmed by the event, let Aces- 
tes remember that he ought not to take away the life of those 
to whom he will be indebted for his own.' 

"At these words, which were pronounced not with the diffi- 
dence of conjecture, but the assurance of certain knowledge, 
Acestes was astonished. ' I perceive, stranger,' said he, 
' that the gods, who have allotted thee so small a portion of the 
gifts of fortune, have enriched thee with the more valuable 
treasures of wisdom.' He then commanded the solemnities of 
the sacrifice to be suspended, and immediately made prepara- 
tions against i:he invasion which had been predicted by Men- 
tor. Multitudes of women, trembling with fear, and men de- 
crepit with age, followed by children, whom the alarm had 
terrified into tears, were seen on every side, crowding to the 
city. Bleating sheet and lowing cattle came in such droves 
from the pastures, that, they were obliged to stand without 
cover in the street. A confused noise was everywhere to be 
heard, of multitudes that jostled each other with tumultuous 
and undistinguished outcries, that mistook a stranger for a 
friend, and pressed forward with the utmost eagerness, though 
they knew not whither they were going. The principal citi- 
zens, indeed, imagining themselves to be wiser than the rest, 
regarded Mentor as an impostor, who had invented a falsehood 
to prolong his life. 

" Before the end of the third day, while they were yet ap- 
plauding their own sagacity, a cloud of dust was perceived 
upon the declivity of the neighboring mountains, and an innu- 
merable multitude of armed barbarians were soon after dis- 
tinguished. These were the Himerians, and other savages, 
that inhabit the Nebrodian mountains, and the summit of 
Acragas 1 ; regions in which the severity of the winter is never 



1 The city of Himera, in Sicily, was celebrated in antiquity. It was sit- 
uated west of the mouth of the river Himera, whose source was at the 



164: W ) : : E S OF FENELON . 

softened by the breezes of spring. Those who had despised 
the prediction of Mentor, were now punished by the loss of 
their slaves and their cattle ; and the king addressed him to 
this effect : ' From henceforth I forget that you are Greeks, 
since you are no more enemies, but friends ; and, as you were, 
doubtless, sent by the gods for our deliverance, I hope not less 
from your valor than I have experienced from your wisdom ; 
dela£.not, therefore, to afford us your assistance.' 

" There appears in the eyes of Mentor a daring that awes 
the fiercest combatants. He snatches a shield, a helmet, a 
sword, a lance : he draws up the soldiers of Acestes, and ad- 
vances towards the enemy at their head. Acestes, whose 
courage is still high, but whose body is enfeeble:! by age, can 
only follow him at a distance. I approach nearer to his per- 
son, but not to his valor. In the battle, his cuirass resembles 
the immortal aegis of Minerva. Death, watching his sword as 
a signal, follows him from rank to rank, Thus a lion of Nu- 
midia, that hunger has made yet more furious, rushes among 
the flock ; J he kills and tears to pieces without resistance ; and 
the shepherds, instead of attempting to defend their sheep, fly 
with terror and trepidation to preserve themselves. 

" The barbarians, who hoped to have surprised the city, 
were themselves surprised and disconcerted. The subjects of 
Acestes, animated by the example and the voice of Mentor, 
exerted a power which they knew not that they possessed. 

foot of the Nebrodea, the great chain of mountains running through the 
whole island. Mount Acragas was in the neighborhood of the city of the 
same name, the Agrigentum of the Romans, the Girgenti of to-day. 

1 " As a famished lion, making wild havoc amid a sheep-fold (for rav- 
enous hunger prompts him on), grinds and tears the flock, feeble and 
dumb with fear, and gnashes his bloody jaws: nor less was tne carnage 
made by Euryalus: he too, all on fire, rages throughout, and in the middle 
falls upon a vulgar, nameless throng." — ^£V, ix. 3o9. 

"lie then .... advanced, brandishing two spears, like a lion reared 
in the mountains, which hath been long in want of flesh, and whose val- 
iant mind impels him to go even to the well-penned fold."— Iliad, xii. 300. 

"As when a lion, leaping amid the herd, lias broken the neck of a 
heifer, or of an ox pasturing in a thicket, so did the son of Tydeus," etc. 
—Ibid., v. 161. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK I. 165 

The son of the king, who commanded the invasion, fell by my 
hand. . Our ages were equal, but he greatly exceeded me in 
stature ; for those savages are descended from a race of giants, 
whose origin was the same as that of the Cyclops. I per- 
ceived that he despised me as a feeble enemy ; but regarding 
neither the fierceness of his demeanor, nor the superiority of 
his strength I made a thrust at his breast with my lance. The 
.veapon entered deeply, he vomited a torrent of dark blood, 
and expired. I was in danger of being crushed by his weight 
as he fell, and the distant mountains echoed with the clash of 
his armor. After I had stripped the body of the spoils, 1 I re- 
turned to seek Acestes. Mentor, having completed the disor- 
der 01 the enemy, cut to pieces all that made a show of 
resistance, and pursued the fugitives to the woods. 

" This success, of which every one had despaired, fixed all 
eyes upon Mentor, as a favorite of the gods, and distinguished 
by divine inspiration. Acestes, in gratitude to his deliverers, 
acquainted us that it would no longer be in his power to pro- 
tect us, if the fleet of JEneas should put back to Sicily. He 
therefore furnished us with a vessel, that we might return to 
our country ; and, having loaded us with presents, he urged 
our immediate departure, as the only means by which the ap- 
proaching danger cculd be avoided. He would not, however, 
supply us either with rowers or a pilot from among his own 
subjects, being unwilling to trust them upon the Grecian 
cc?vCts; but he sent on ooard some Phoenician 2 merchants, who, 
as they arc p. commercial people, and trade to every port, had 
nothing to fear. These zr.ea were to have returned to Acestes, 
after putting us on sLoie at Ithaca ; but the gods, who sport 
with the designs of men, reserved us for other dangers." 



1 Like the Homeric heroes, who never failed to despoil their dead ene- 
mies, provided they had time. 

2 The Phoenicians, whose chief cities were Sidon and Tyre, on the coast 
of Syria, carried on, in very early times, an immense commerce, and their 
navigation extended to all seas. 



BOOK II. 

Telumachus relates his being taken in tie Tyrian vessel by the fleet of 
Sesostris, and carried captive into E r c.-pS. He describes the. beauty of 
the country, and the wise government of its king. He relates aiso thai 
Mentor was sent a slave into Ethiopia ; that he 7.as himself reduced 
to keep sheep in the deserts of Oasis; that in this state he vas com- 
forted by Tennosiris, a priest of Apollo, who taughi hiin to imitate rha ; ; 
god, who had once been the shepherd of Admetus : th?,t Sesostris, hav- 
ing at length heard with astonishment what his influence and example 
had effected among the shepherds, determined to see him, and being 
convinced of his innocence, promised to send him to Ithaca, but that the 
death of Sesostris overwhelmed him with new calamities; and that he 
was imprisoned in a tower which overlooked the sea, from whence he 
saw Bocchoris, the new king, slain in a battle against part of his subjects, 
who had revolted, and had called in the Tyrians to their assistance. 

"Long had the pride of the Tyrians offended Sesostris, king 
of Egypt, who had extended his dominion by the conquest of 
many States. 1 The wealth which they had acquired by com- 
merce, and the impregnable strength of their city, which stood 
in the sea, had rendered them so insolent and presumptuous, 
that they refused to pay the tribute which had bee^i imposed 
by Sesostris on his return to Egypt ; and had sent troops to 
the assistance of his brother, who had attempted c: -issassinate 
him at a feast, in the midst of rejc-obc-s that had been made 
for his return. 2 

" Sesostris had determined to humble them, by interrupting 



1 Sesostris, according to Diodorus Siculus fi., ch. lv.). subdued Ethio- 
pia, the greater part of Asia, and the Thracians in Europe. The chronol- 
ogy of Herodotus could not be reconciled with the narrative of Telemachus ; 
for, according to him, Sesostris reigned a century earlier than the taking 
of Troy. The calculation of Diodorus is more favorable to Fenelon. Be- 
sides, we must not exact too much from a work of imagination. 

2 Both Herodotus and Diodorus Siculus recount this fact. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK II. 167 

their trade : he therefore sent out a great number of armed 
vessels, with orders to take or sink the Phoenician ships 
wherever they should be found ; and, just as we lost sight of 
Sicily, we fell in with an Egyptian fleet. — The port and the 
land seemed to retreat behind 1 us, and lose themselves in the 
clouds; and we saw the fleet advance like a floating city. The 
Phoenicians immediately perceived their danger, and would 
have avoided it, but it was too late. The Egyptian vessels 
sailed better than ours ; the wind was in their favor ; they had 
a greater number of oars : they boarded us, took us without 
resistance, and carried us prisoners into Egypt. 

" I told them, indeed, that neither Mentor, nor myself, was a 
Phoenician ; but they heard me with contempt. Imagining 
that we were slaves, a merchandise in which they knew the 
Phoenicians traded, they thought only how to dispose of us to 
the greatest advantage. We soon perceived the sea to be 
whitened by the waters of the Nile, and the coast of Egypt 
appeared low in the horizon. We then arrived at the island 
of Pharos,' 2 near the city of No, 3 and then we proceeded up the 
Nile to Memphis. 4 

" If the sorrows of captivity had not rendered us insensible 
to pleasure, we must have been delighted with the prospect of 
this fertile country, which had the appearance of a vast garden, 
watered with an infinite number of canals. Each side of the 
river was diversified with opulent cities, delightful villas, fields 
that produce every year a golden harvest, and meadows that 
were covered with flocks : earth lavished her fruits upon the 
husbandman, till he stooped under the burden; and Echo 
seemed pleased to repeat the rustic music of the shepherds. 

" ' Happy are the people,' said Mentor, ' who are governed 



1 " We are wafted from the port, and the land and cities retreat." — Vir- 
gil, Mn.., iii. 72. 

2 Pharos is first mentioned in the Odyssey fiv. 354). The island still 
retains its name, and now forms the harbor of Alexandria. 

3 The ancient city of No seems to have been situated where Alexandria 
was afterwards built. 

* Memphis, now destroyed, stood near the pyramids, not far from Cairo. 



168 WORKS OF FENELON. 

by so wise a king ! They flourish in perpetual plenty, and 
love him by whom that plenty is bestowed. Thus, Telema- 
chus, ought thy government to secure the happiness of thy 
people, if the gods shall at length exalt thee to the throne of 
thy father. Love thy subjects as thy children ; and learn, from 
their love of thee, to derive the happiness of a parent : teach 
them to connect the idea of happiness with that of their king, 
that, whenever they rejoice in the blessings of peace, they may 
remember their benefactor, and honor thee with the tribute of 
gratitude. The kings who are only solicitous to be feared, and 
teach their subjects humility by oppression, are the scourges of 
mankind. They are, indeed, objects of terror ; but they are also 
objects of hatred and detestation, 1 and have more to fear from 
their subjects than their subjects can have to fear from them.' 

" I replied : ' Alas ! what have we now to do with maxims 
of government ? With respect to us, Ithaca is no more. We 
shall never again behold Penelope or our country. With 
whatever glory Ulysses may at length return, to meet his son 
is a joy that he shall never taste ; and to obey him till I shall 
learn to govern, is a pleasure that will be v forever withheld 
Irom me. Let us die then, my dear Mentor ; all thoughts, but 
of death, are idle speculations : let us die, since the gods have 
ceased to regard us with compassion !' 

" I was so depressed by grief, that this speech was rendered 
almost unintelligible by the sighs with which it was interrupted. 
But Mentor, though he was not presumptuous with respect to 
future evils, was yet fearless of the present. ' Unworthy son of 
the great Ulysses,' said he, 'dost thou yield to misfortunes 
without resistance ? Know, that the day approaches in which 
thou shalt again behold thy mother and thy country. Thou 
shalt behold, in the meridian of his glory, him whom thou 
hast never known,, the invincible Ulysses, whom fortune can 
never subdue, and whose example, in more dreadful calamity 



1 "They hate whom they fear" (quern metimnt odervnt), says Ennius. 
The same thought is in Laberus : " He must fear many whom many fear." 
Many passages from the ancients, containing this idea, could be collected. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK II. 169 

than thine, may teach thee never to despair. Should he learn, 
in the remote countries on which the tempest has cast him, 
that his son emulates neither his patience nor his valor, the 
dreadful tidings would cover him with confusion, and afflict 
him more than all the horrors of his life.' 

" Mentor then called my attention to the cheerfulness of 
plenty, which was diffused over all Egypt ; a country which 
contained twenty-two thousand cities. 1 He admired the policy 
with which they were governed ; the justice which prevented the 
oppression of the poor by the rich ; the education of the youth, 
which rendered obedience, labor, temperance, and the love of 
arts, or of literature, habitual ; the punctuality in all the 
solemnities of religion ; the public spirit, the desire of honor 
the integrity to man, and the reverence to the gods, whieu. 
were implanted by every parent in every child. He long con- 
templated this beautiful order with increasing delight, and 
frequently repeated his exclamations of praise. ' Happy are 
the people,' said he, ' who are thus wisely governed ; but more 
happy is the king whose bounty is so extensively the felicity 
of others, and whose virtue is the source of yet nobler enjoy- 
ment to himself. His dominion is secured, not by terror, but 
by love. His commands are received, not only with obedience, 
but with joy. He reigns in the hearts of his people, who are 
so far from wishing his government at an end, that they con- 
sider his mortality with regret, and every man would rejoice 
to redeem the life of his sovereign with his own.' 

" I listened attentively to this discourse of Mentor ; and, 
while he spoke, I felt new courage kindling in my bosom. 

" As soon as we arrived at Memphis, a city distinguished by 
its opulence and splendor, the governor sent us forward to 
Thebes, 2 that we might be questioned by Sesostris ; who, even 



1 Herodotus says (II., eh. clxxvii.) that, in the rei<rn of Amasis. there 
were in Egypt twenty thousand populous c'ties. Accor.lintr to Diodorus, 
Egypt, in remote times, contained eighteen thousand citie- ; and more 
than thirty thousand, under the tir.-t Ptolemy. See Kawlinson's note upon 
the passage of Herodotus. • , 

2 Thebes f a hundred gates, called, also, Diospolis by the Greeks, is 
Vol. I.— 8 



170 WORKS OF FENELON. 

had he been less attentive to administer his own government, 
would yet have examined us himself, as he was extremely 
incensed against the Tynans. We therefore proceeded up the 
Nile to the celebrated city with a hundred gates, the residence 
of this mighty prince. Thebes appeared to be of vast extent, 
and more populous than the most flourishing city of Greece. 
The regulations that are established for keeping the avenues 
free from incumbrances, fci maintaining the aqueducts, for ren- 
dering the baths convenient, for the cultivation of a.'ts, and for 
the security of the public, are the .nose exyJl<mt that can be 
imagined. The squares are d^oraied with fountains and obe- 
lisks; the temples are of marble; and the architecture, though 
it is simple, is majestic. The palace itself is almost as extensive 
as a town, and abounds with columns of marble, pyramids, and 
obelisks, statues of a prodigious magnitude, and furniture of 
silver and gold. 

" The king was informed, by those who took us, that we 
were found on board a Phoenician vessel. It was his custom to 
give audience, at a certain hour every day, to all who had any 
complaints to make or intelligence to communicate. No man 
was either despised or rejected by Sesostris : he considered 
himself as possessing the regal authority, only that he might be 
the instrument of good to his people, whom he regarded with 
the affection of a father. Strangers, whom he treated with 
great kindness, he was very solicitous to see, because he 
believed that some useful knowledge might always be acquired 
by an acquaintance with the manners and customs of remote 
countries. 

" For this reason we were brought before the king. He was 
seated upon a throne of ivory, and held a golden sceptre in his 
hand. Though he was advanced in years his person was still 
graceful, 1 and his countenance was full of sweetness and 
majesty. lie sat every day to administer justice to his people ; 



_iOw destroyed. Luxor now occupies part of the ground upon which the 
city stood. 

1 " JNow in years, but of fresh and green old age. 1 '— Virgil, jEn., vi. 304. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK II. 171 

and his patience and sagacity as a judge would have vindicated 
the boldest panegyrist from the imputation of flattery. Such 
were the labors of the day : and to hear a discourse on 
some question of science, or to converse with those whom he 
knew to be worthy of his familiarity, was the entertainment of 
the evening. Nor was the lustre of his life sullied by any 
fault but that of having triumphed over the princes, whom he 
had conquered with too much ostentation, and having confided 
too much in one of his officers, whose character I shall pres- 
ently describe. When he saw me, my youth moved him to 
compassion ; and he inquired of me my country and my name. 
We were struck with the dignity and propriety of his expression. 

" I answered : * Most illustrious prince, thou art not igno- 
rant of the siege of Troy, which endured ten years ; nor of its 
destruction, which exhausted Greece of her noblest blood. 
Ulysses, the king of Ithaca, who is my father, was one of the 
principal instruments of that great event, but is now, in search, 
of his kingdom, a fugitive on the deep ; and, in search of him, 
I am, by a like misfortune, a captive in Egypt. Restore me 
once more to my father and my country ; so may the gods 
preserve thee to thy children ', and may they rejoice under the 
protection of so good a parent P 

" Sesostris still regarded me with compassion ; but doubting 
whether what I had told him was true, he gave charge of us 
to one of his officers, with orders to inquire of the persons 
who had taken our vessel, whether we were indeed Greeks or 
Phoenicians. 'If they are Phoenicians,' said he, ' they will de- 
serve punishment, not only as our enemies, but as wretches 
who have basely attempted to deceive us by falsehoods ; but, 
on the contrary, if they are Greeks, it is my pleasure that they 
shall be treated with kindness, and sent back to their country 
in one of my vessels ; for I love Greece, a country which has 
derived many of its laws from the wisdom of Egypt. I am not 
anacciuainted with the virtue of Hercules ; the glory of Achilles 
has reached us, however remote ; I admire the wisdom that is 
related of the unfortunate Ulysses ; and I rejoice to alleviate 
the distress of virtue.' 



172 WORKS OF FENELON. 

" Metophis, the officer to whom the king had referred me 
examination of our affair, was as corrupt and selfish as Sesos- 
tris was generous and sincere. He attempted to perplex us by 
ensnaring questions; and, as he perceived that Mentor's an- 
swers were more prudent than mine, he regarded him with ma- 
levolence and suspicion ; for, to the unworthy, there is no insult 
so "intolerable as merit. He therefore caused us to be separated; 
and from that time I knew not what had become of Mentor. 

" This separation was, to me, sudden and dreadful as a 
stroke of thunder. Metophis hoped that, by interrogating us 
apart, he should be able to discover some inconsistency in our 
account ; and yet more, that he might allure me, by promises, 
to make known that which Mentor had concealed. To dis- 
cover truth was not, indeed, his principal view, but to find some 
pretence to tell the king we were Phoenicians, that we might 
become his slaves. Notwithstanding our innocence, and the 
king's sagacity, he succeeded. 

" How dangerous a situation is royalty, in which the wisest 
are often the tools of deceit ! A throne is surrounded by a 
train of subtilty and self-interest. Integrity retires, because 
she will not be introduced by Importunity or Flattery. Virtue, 
conscious of lier own dignity, waits at a distance till she is 
sought ; and princes seldom know where she is to be found. 
Vice, and her dependents, are impudent and fraudful, insinu- 
ating and officious, skilful in dissimulation, and ready to 
renounce all principles, and to violate every tie, when it be- 
comes necessary to the gratification of the appetites of a prince. 
How wretched is the man who is thus perpetually exposed to 
the attempts of guilt, by which he must inevitably perish, if 
he does not renounce the music of adulation, and learn not to 
be offended by the plainness of truth! Such were the reflec- 
tions which I made in my distress ; and I revolved in my mind 
all that had been said to me by Mentor. 

" While my thoughts were thus employed, I was sent by 
Metophis towards the mountains of the desert Oasis, 1 that I 

1 The desert of Libya is designated, in which there are oases. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK II. 173 

might assist his slaves in looking after his flocks, which were 
almost without number." 

Calypso here interrupted Telemachus. " And what did you 
then?" said she. "In Sicily, you chose death rather than 
slavery." 

" I had then," said Telemachus, " become still more wretched, 
and had no longer the sad consolation of such a choice. 
Slavery was irresistibly forced upon me, and 1 was compelled 
by fortune to exhaust the dregs of her cup : I was excluded 
even from hope, and every avenue to liberty was barred 
against me. 

" In* the mean time, Mentor, as he has since told me, was 
carried into Ethiopia, by certain natives of that country, to 
^hom he had been sold. 

^"The scene of my captivity was a desert, where the plain 
is a burning sand, and the mountains are covered with snow. 
Below was intolerable heat, above was perpetual winter. The 
pasturage was thinly scattered among the rocks, the mountains 
were steep and craggy, and the valleys between them were 
almost inaccessible to the rays of the sun. 

" I had no society in this dreadful situation but that of the 
shepherds, who are as rude and uncultivated as the country. 
Here I spent the night in bewailing my misfortunes, and the 
day in following my flocks, that I might avoid the brutal in- 
solence of the principal slave, whose name was Butis ; and 
who, having conceived hopes of obtaining his freedom, was 
perpetually accusing the rest, as a testimony of his zeal and 
attachment to the interest of his master. This complication 
of distress almost overwhelmed me ; and, in the anguish of 
my mind, I one day forgot my flock, and threw myself on the 
ground near a cave, expecting that death would deliver me 
from a calamity which I was no longer able to sustain. 

" Just in the moment of despair, I perceived the. mountain 
tremble ; the oaks and pines seemed to bow from the summit ; 
tha winds were hushed. A deep voice, which seemed to issue 
from the cave, pronounced these words : ' Son of the wise 
Ulysses, thou must, like him, become great by patience. 



174 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Princes who have not known adversity are unworthy of happi- 
ness; they are enervated by luxury, and intoxicated with 
pride. Surmount and remember these misfortunes, and thou 
shalt be happy. Thou shalt return to Ithaca ; and thy glory 
shall fill the world. When thou shalt have dominion over 
others, forget not that thou hast been like them, weak, desti- 
tute, and afflicted ; be it thy happiness, then, to afford them 
comfort ; love thy people ; detest flattery; and remember that 
no man is great, but in proportion as he restrains and subdues 
his passions.' 

"These words inspired me as the voice of heaven; joy im- 
mediately throbbed in my veins, and courage glowed in my 
bosom. Nor was I seized with that horror which so often 
causes the hair to stand upright, and the blood to stagnate, 
when the gods reveal themseives to men. I rose in tranquil- 
lity ; and, kneeling on the ground, I lifted up my hands to 
heaven, and paid my adorations to Minerva, to whom I believed 
myself indebted for this oracle. At the same time I perceived 
my mind illuminated with wisdom, and was conscious of a 
gentle, yet prevailing, influence which overruled all my pas- 
sions, and restrained the ardor of my youth. I acquired the 
friendship of all the shepherds of the desert ; and my meek- 
ness, patience, and diligence at length obtained the good-will 
even of Butis himself, who was at first disposed to treat me 
with inhumanity. 

" To shorten the tedious hours of captivity and solitude, I 
endeavored to procure some books, for I sunk under the sense 
of my condition, merely because I had nothing either to recre- 
ate or to fortify my mind. ' Happy,' said I, ' are those who 
have lost their relish for tumultuous pleasure, and are content 
with the soothing quiet of innocence and retirement ! Happy 
are they whose amusement is knowledge, and whose supreme 
delight is the cultivation of the mind ! Wherever they shall 
be driven by the persecution of Fortune, the means of employ- 
ment are still with them ; and that weary listlessness, which 
renders life insupportable to the voluptuous and the indolent, 
is unknown to those who can employ themselves bv real- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK II. 175 

ing. 1 Happy are" those to whom this employment is pleasing , 
and who are not, like me, compelled to be idle !' 

"While my mind was agitated by these thoughts, I had 
wandered into a thick forest; and, suddenly looking up, I 
perceived before me an old man with a book in his hand. His 
forehead was somewhat wrinkled, and he was bald to the 
crown ; a beard, white as snow, hung down to his girdle ; his 
stature was lofty, and his port majestic ; his cheeks were still 
florid, and his eyes piercing ; there was great sweetness in his 
voice ; his words were simple and engaging. I had never 
seen any person whose manner and appearance so strongly ex- 
cited veneration and esteem. His name was Termosiris ; 2 he 
was a priest of Apollo, and officiated in a temple of marble, 
which the kings of Egypt had consecrated to that deity in the 
forest. The book which he held in his hand was a collection 
of hymns that had been composed in honor of the gods. 

" lie accosted me with an air of friendship ; and we entered 
into conversation. He related past events with such force of 
expression, that they seemed to be present; and with such 
comprehensive brevity, that attention was not wearied. He 
foresaw the future, by a sagacity that discovered the true char- 
acters and dispositions of mankind, and the events which they 
would produce. But with ail this intellectual superiority, he 
was cheerful and condescending. There is no grace in the 
utmost gayety of youth that was not exceeded by Termosiris 
in his age. He regarded young persons with a kind of pa- 
rental affection, when he perceived that they had a disposition 
to be instructed, and a love of virtue. 

" He soon discovered a tender regard for me ; and gave me 
books to relieve the anxiety of my mind. He called me his 

i This eulogy of books and reading is true, and beautifully expressed ; but 
tlie period of Sesostris suggests to the critic an anachronism. "These 
studies," says Cicero (pro Archias, § 7), " are the food of youth, the de- 
light of old age ; the ornament -of prosperity, the refuge and comfort of 
adversity ; a delight at home, and no hindrance abroad ; they are com- 
panions by night, and in travel, and in the country." 

2 "The episode of Termosiris is alone woi'th a long poem.'''' — Chateau- 
brand, Itln., torn. iii. p. 80. 



176 WORKS OF FENELON. 



son ; and I frequently addressed him as a father. ' The gods, 
said I, ' who have deprived me of Mentor, have, in pity, sus- 
tained me with thy friendship.' He was, without doubt, like 
Orpheus and Linus, inspired by the gods. He often repeated 
verses of his own, and gave me those of many others who had 
been the favorites of the Muses. When he was habited in his 
long white robes, and played upon his ivory lyre, the bears, 
lions, and tigers of the forest fawned upon him, and licked his 
feet ; the satyrs came from their recesses and danced around 
him ; and it might almost have been believed, that even the 
trees' and rocks were influenced by the magic of his song, in 
which he celebrated the majesty of the gods, the virtue of 
heroes, and the wisdom of those who prefer glory to pleas- 
ure. 

" Termosiris often excited me to courage. He told me that 
the gods would never abandon either Ulysses or his son ; and 
that I ought, after the example of Apollo, to introduce the 
shepherds to the acquaintance of the Muses. ' Apollo,' says 
he, 'displeased that Jupiter frequently interrupted the serenity 
of the brightest days with thunder, turned his resentment 
against the Cyclops, who forged the bolts, and destroyed them 
with his arrows. Immediately the fiery explosions of Mount 
Etna ceased ; the strokes of those enormous hammers, which 
had shaken the earth to the centre, were heard no more ; iron 
and brass, which the Cyclops had been used to polish, began 
now to rust and canker. Vulcan quitting his forge, in the 
fury of his resentment, hastily climbed Olympus, notwith- 
standing his lameness ; and, rushing into the assembly of the 
gods, covered with dust and sweat, complained of the injury 
with all the bitterness of invective. Jupiter being thus in- 
censed against Apollo, expelled him from heaven, and threw 
him down headlong to the earth. His chariot, though it was 
empty, still performed its usual course ; and, by an invisible 



1 " At the same time he begins. Then you might have seen the faun8 
and savages frisking in measured dance, then the stiff oaks waving their 
tops."— Virgil, EcL, vi. 26. 






TELEMACHUS. BOOK H. 177 

impulse, continued the succession of day and night, and the 
regular change of seasons to mankind. 

" * Apollo, divested of his rays, was compelled to become a 
shepherd, and kept the flocks of Admetus, king of Thessaly. 
While he was thus disgraced, and in exile, he used to soothe 
his mind with music, under the shade of some elms that flour- 
ished upon the borders of a limpid stream. This drew about 
him all the neighboring shepherds, whose life till then had 
been rude and brutal ; whose knowledge had been confined 
to the management of their sheep ; and whose country had 
the appearance of a desert. 

'''To these savages Apollo, varying the subject of his song, 
taught all the arts by which existence is improved into felicity. 
Sometimes he celebrated the flowers which improve the graces 
of Spring, the fragrance which she diffuses, and the verdure 
that rises under her feet. Sometimes he sang of the delight- 
ful evenings of Summer, of her zephyrs that refresh mankind, 
and of her dews that allay the thirst of the earth. Nor were 
the golden fruits of Autumn forgotten, with which she rewards 
the labor of the husbandman ; nor the cheerful idleness of 
Winter, who piles his fires till they emulate the sun, and in- 
vites the youth to dancing and festivity. He described also 
the gloomy forests with which the mountains are overshad- 
owed, and the rivers that wind with a pleasing intricacy 
through the luxuriant meadows of the valley. Thus were the 
shepherds of Thessaly made acquainted with the happiness 
that is to be found in a rural life, by those who know how to 
enjoy the beauties of nature. 

" 'The pipes of the shepherds now rendered them more 
happy than kings ; and those uncorrupted pleasures, which fly 
from the palace, were invited to the cottage. The shepherd- 
ess 3S were followed by the Sports, the Smiles, and the Graces; 
ar.d adorned by simplicity and innocence. Every day was de- 
voted to joy ; and nothing was to be heard but the chirping 
of birds, the whispers of the' zephyrs that sported among the 
branches of the trees, the murmurs of water falling from a 
rock, or the songs with which the Muses inspired the shepherds 

8* 



178 WORKS OF FENELON. 

who followed Apollo. They were taught also to conquer in 
the race, and to shoot with the bow. The gods themselves 
became jealous of their happiness : they now thought the ob- 
scurity of a shepherd better than the splendor of a deity, and 
recalled Apollo to Olympus. 

" ' By this story, my son, be thou instructed. Thou art nov/ 
in the same state with that of Apollo in his exile. Like him, 
therefore, fertilize an uncultivated soil, and call plenty to a 
desert ; teach these rustics the power of music, soften the ob- 
durate heart to sensibility, and captivate the savage with the 
charms of virtue. Let them taste the pleasures of innocence 
and seclusion ; and heighten this felicity with the transporting 
knowledge, that it is not dependent upon the caprice of for- 
tune. The day approaches, my son, the day approaches, in 
which the pains and cares that surround a throne will teach 
thee to remember these wilds with regret.' 

" Termosiris then gave me a flute, the tone of which was sc 
melodious, that the echoes of the mountains, which repeated 
the sound, immediately brought the neighboring shepherds in 
crowds about me. A divine melody was communicated to my 
voice ; I perceived myself to be under a supernatural influence, 
and I celebrated the beauties of nature with all the rapture of 
enthusiasm. We frequently sung all the day in concert, and 
sometimes encroached upon the night. The shepherds, for- 
getting their cottages and their flocks, were fixed motion! is- 
as statues about me, while I instructed them. The desert be- 
came insensibly less wild and rude ; every thing assumed a 
more pleasing appearance ; and the country itself seemed to 
be improved by the manners of the people. 

" We often assembled to sacrifice in the temple to Apollo, 
where Termosiris was priest. The shepherds wore wreaths of 
laurel in honor of the gods, and the shepherdesses were 
adorned with garlands of flowers, and came dancing with bur- 
dens of consecrated gifts upon their heads. After the sacri- 
fice, we made a rural feast ; the greatest delicacies were the 
milk of our goats and sheep, and some dates, figs, grapes, and 
other fruits, which were fresh gathered by our own hands ; 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK II. 179 

the green turf was our seat, and the foliage of the trees 
afforded us a more pleasing shade than the gilded roof of a 
palace. 

" But my reputation among the shepherds was completed 
by an accident : a hungry lion broke in amoug my flock, and 
began a dreadful slaughter. I ran towards him, though I had 
nothing in my hand but my sheep-hook. When he saw me, 
he erected his mane : he began to grind his teeth, and to ex- 
lend his claws : his mouth appeared dry and inflamed, and his 
eyes were red and fiery. I did not wait for his attack, but 
rushed upon him, and threw him to the ground ; nor did I re- 
ceive any hurt, for a small coat of mail that I wore, as an 
Egyptian shepherd, defended me against his claws. Three 
times I threw him, and he rose three times against me, roaring 
so loud that the utmost recesses of the forest echoed. At last, 
I grasped him till he was strangled, and the shepherds, who 
were witnesses of my conquest, insisted that I should wear his 
skin as a trophy. 

" This action, and the change of manners among our shep- 
herds, was rumored through all Egypt, and came at length to 
the ears of Sesostris. He learnt that one of the two captives, 
who had been taken for Phoenicians, had restored the golden 
age in the midst of deserts which were scarcely habitable. He 
desired to see me ; for he was a friend of the Muses, and re- 
garded, with attention and complacency, whatever appeared to 
be the means of instruction. I was accordingly brought before 
him : he listened to my story with pleasure, and soon discov- 
ered that he had been deceived by the avaricious Metophis. 
Metophis he therefore condemned to perpetual imprisonment, 
and took into his own possession the wealth that his rapacity 
and injustice had heaped together. ' How unhappy,' said he, 
' are those whom the gods have exalted above the rest of man- 
kind ! They see no object but through a medium which dis- 
torts it, they are surrounded by wretches who intercept truth 
in its approaches ; every one imagines it is his interest to 
deceive them, and every one conceals his own ambition under 
the appearance of zeal for their service : that regard is pro- 



180 WORKS OF FENELON. 

fessed for the prince, of which the wealth and honors that he 
dispenses are the real objects; and so flagitious is the neglect 
of his interest, that for these he is flattered and betrayed.' 

" From this time Sesostris treated me with a tender friend- 
ship, and resolved to send me back to Ithaca, in a fleet that 
should carry troops sufficient to deliver Penelope from all her 
suitors. This fleet was at length ready to sail, and waited only 
for our embarkation. I reflected, with wonder, upon the ca- 
price of Fortune, who frequently most exalts those whom, the 
moment before, she had most depressed'. The experience of 
this inconstancy encouraged me to hope that Ulysses, what- 
ever he should suffer, might at last return to his kingdom. 
My thoughts also suggested that I might again meet with 
Mentor, even though he should have been carried into the re- 
motest parts of Ethiopia. 

" I therefore delayed my departure a few days, that I might 
make some inquiry after him ; but in this interval, Sesostris, 
who was very old, died suddenly ; and by his death I was in 
volved in new calamities. 

" This event filled all Egypt with grief and despair : every 
family lamented Sesostris as its most valuable friend, its pro- 
tector, its father. The old, lifting up their hands to heaven, 
uttered the most passionate exclamations : ' O Egypt, thou 
hast known no king like Sesostris in the times that are past ; 
nor shalt thou know any like him in those that are to come ! 
Ye gods ! ye should not have given Sesostris to. mankind ; or 
ye should not have taken him away ! wherefore do we sur- 
vive Sesostris !' The young cried out : 4 The hope of Egypt 
is cut off ! Our fathers were long happy under the government 
of a king whom we have known only to regret !' His domes- 
tics wept incessantly, and, during forty days, the inhabitants 
of the remotest provinces came in crowds to his funeral. 
Every one was eagerly solicitous yet once more to gaze upon 
the body of his prince ; all desired to preserve his image in 
their memory ; and some requested to be shut up with him in 
the tomb. 

" The loss of Sesostris was more sensibly felt, as Bocchoris, 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK H. 181 

his son, was destitute of humanity to strangers and of curiosity 
for science, of esteem for merit and of love of glory. The 
greatness of the father contributed to degrade the son. His 
education had rendered him effeminately voluptuous and bru- 
tally proud ; he looked down upon mankind as creatures of an 
inferior species, that existed only for his pleasure : he thought 
only of gratifying his passions, and of dissipating the immense 
treasures that had been amassed for public use by the economy 
of his father ; of procuring new resources for extravagances by 
the most cruel rapacity ; of impoverishing the rich, of famish- 
ing the poor, and of perpetrating every other evil that was 
advised by the beardless sycophants whom he permitted to 
disgrace his presence, while he drove away with derision the 
hoary sages in whom his father had confided. Such was Boc- 
choris ; not a king, but a monster. Egypt groaned under his 
tyranny; and though the reverence of the people for the 
memory of Sesostris rendered them patient under the govern- 
ment of his son, however odious and cruel, yet he precipitated 
his own destruction ; and, indeed, it was impossible that he 
should long possess a throne which he so little deserved. 

" My hopes of returning to Ithaca were now at an end. I 
was shut up in a tower that stood on the sea-shore near Pelu- 
sium, 1 where we should have embarked, if the death of Sesos- 
tris had not prevented us ; for, Metophis having by some in- 
trigue procured his enlargement and an admission into the 
councils of the young king, almost the first act of his power 
was to imprison me in this place, to revenge the disgrace into 
which I had brought him. There I passed whole days and 
nights in the agonies of despair. All that Termosiris had pre- 
dicted, and all that I had heard in the cave, was remembered 
but as a dream. Sometimes, while I was absorbed in reflec- 
tions upon my own misery, I stood gazing at the waves that 
broke against the foot of the tower ; and sometimes I contem- 



1 A city of Lower Egypt, standing on the east side of the most eastern 
mouth of the Nile, two miles from the sea. It was strongly fortified. Its 
ruins alone remain. 



182 WORKS OF FENELON. 

plated the vessels that were agitated by the tempest, and in 
danger of driving against the rocks upon which the tower was 
built ; but I was so far from commiserating those who were 
threatened with shipwreck, that I regarded them with envy. 
' Their misfortunes,' said 1 to myself, ' and their lives, will 
quickly be at an end together, or they will return in safety to 
their country. Alas ! 1 can hope for neither.' 

" One day, while I was thus pining with ineffectual sorrow, 
I suddenly perceived the masts of ships at a distance like a 
forest. The sea was presently covered with sails swelling with 
the wind, and the waves foamed with the strokes of innumera- 
ble oars. I heard a confused sound on every side. On the 
sea-coast, I perceived one party of Egyptians run to arms with 
terror and precipitation, and another waiting quietly for the 
fleet which was bearing down upon them. I soon discovered 
that some of these vessels were of Phoenicia, and others of 
Cyprus; for my misfortunes had acquainted me with many 
things that relate to navigation. The Egyptians appeared to 
be divided among themselves ; and I could easily believe that 
the folly and the violence of Bocchoris had provoked his sub- 
jects to a revolt, and had kindled a civil war : nor was it long 
before I became a spectator of an obstinate engagement from 
the top of my tower. 

" Those Egyptians who had called in the assistance of the 
foreign powers, after having favored the descent, attacked the 
other party, which was commanded by the king, and animated 
by his example. He appeared like the god 1 of war ; rivers of 
blood flowed around him; the wheels of his chariot were 
smeared with gore that was black, clotted, and frothy, and 
could scarcely be dragged over the heaps of slain, which they 
crushed as they passed. His figure was graceful and vigor- 
ous, his aspect was haughty and fierce, and his eyes sparkled 
with rage and despair. Like a high-spirited horse that had 



1 " And Meriones, eqval to swift Mars, quickly took from the tent a 
brazen spear." — Homer, Iliad, xiii. 298. Tliis comparison of warriors with 
Mars is frequent in the ancient poets. 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK II. 183 

never been broken, he was precipitated upon danger by his 
courage, and his valor was not directed by wisdom. He knew 
not how to retrieve an error, nor to give orders with sufficient 
exactness. He neither foresaw the evils that threatened him, 
nor employed the troops he had to the greatest advantage, 
though he was in the utmost need of more. Not that he wanted 
abilities, for his understanding was equal to his courage, but he 
had never been instructed by adversity : those who had been 
intrusted with his education had corrupted an excellent natural 
disposition by flattery. He was intoxicated with the conscious- 
ness of his power, and the advantages of his situation ; he be- 
lieved that every thing ought to yield to the impetuosity of his 
wishes, and the least appearance of opposition transported him 
with rage ; he was then deaf to the expostulations of reason, 
and had no longer the power of recollection. The fury of his 
pride transformed him to a brute, and left him neither the af- 
fections nor the understanding of a man ; the most faithful of 
his servants fled terrified from his presence ; and he was gen- 
tle only to the most abjVct servility, and the most criminal 
compliance. Thus his conduct, always violent, was always 
directly opposite to his interest, and he was detested by all 
whose approbation is to be desired. 

" His valor now sustained him long against a multitude of 
his enemies ; but, at length, the dart of a Phoenician entered 
his breast : the reins dropped from his hands, and he fell from 
his chariot under the feet of his horses. A soldier of the isle 
of Cyprus immediately struck off his head, and, holding it up 
by the hair, showed it to the confederates as a trophy of their 
victory. 

" Of this head no time or circumstance can ever obliterate 
the memory : methinks I still see it dropping blood — the eyes 
closed and sunk — the visage pale and disfigured — the mouth 
half open, as if it would still finish the interrupted silence — 
and the look which, even in death, was haughty and threatening. 
Nor shall I forget, if the gods hereafter place me upon a throne, 
so dreadful a demonstration that a king is not worthy to com- 
mand, nor can be happy in the exercise of his power, but in 



184 WORKS OF FENELON. 

proportion as lie is himself obedient to reason. Alas ! how 
deplorable is his state, who, by the perversion of that power 
with which the gods have invested him as the instrument of 
public happiness, diffuses misery among the multitudes that 
he governs, and who is known to be a king only as he is a 
curse !" 



BOOK III. 

Telemachus relates that, the successor of Bocchoris releasing all the Tyrian 
prisoners, he was himself sent to Tyre, on board the vessel of Narbal, 
who had commanded the Tyrian fleet ; that Narbal gave him a descrip- 
tion of Pygmalion their king, and expressed apprehensions of danger 
from the cruelty of his avarice; that he afterwards instructed him in 
the commercial regulations of Tyre; and that, being about to embark in 
a Cyprian vessel, in order to proceed by the isle of Cyprus to Ithaca, 
Pygmalion discovered that he was a stranger, and ordered him to be 
seized ; that his life was thus brought into the most imminent danger, 
but that he had been preserved by the tyrant's mistress Astarbe, that 
she might, in his stead, destroy a young Lyctian of whom she had been 
enamored, but who rejected her for another ; that he finally embarked 
in a Cyprian vessel, to return to Ithaca by the way of Cyprus. 

Calypso was greatly astonished at the wisdom which she 
discovered in Telemachus. She was delighted with his inge- 
nious confession of the errors into which he had been betrayed 
by the precipitation of his own resolutions, and by his neglect 
of Mentor's counsel. She was surprised to perceive in the 
youth such strength and dignity of mind, as enabled him to 
judge of his own actions with impartiality ; and, by a review 
of the failings of his life, become prudent, cautious, and delib- 
erate. " Proceed," said she, " my dear Telemachus ; for I am 
impatient to know by what means you escaped from Egypt, and 
where you again found Mentor, whose loss yov hail so much 
reason to regret." Telemachus then continued his relation. 

"The party of Egyptians who had preserved their virtue 
and their loyalty, being greatly inferior to the rebels, were 
obliged to yield when the king fell. Another prince, whose 
name was Termutis, was established in his stead. The Phoe- 
nician and Cyprian troops, after they had concluded a treaty 
with him, departed. By this treaty, all the Phoenician prison- 
ers were to be restored ; and, as I was deemed one of the 



186 WORKS OF FENELON. 

number, I was set at liberty, and put on board with the rest,— 
a change of fortune that once more dissipated the gloom of 
despair, and diffused the dawn of hope in my bosom. Out 
sails were now swelled by a prosperous wind, — the foaming 
waves were divided by our oars, — the spacious deep was cov- 
ered with vessels, — the mariners shouted, — the shores of Egypt 
fled from us, — and the hills and mountains grew level by de- 
grees. Our view began to be bounded only by the sea and 
the sky, while the sparkling fires of the sun, which was rising, 
seemed to emerge from the abyss of the waters; his rays 
tinged with gold the tops of the mountains, which were still 
just to be perceived in the horizon ; and the deep azure with 
which the whole firmament was painted, was an omen of a 
happy voyage. 

" Though I had been dismissed as a Phoenician, yet I was 
not known to any of those with whom I embarked. Narbal, 
who commanded the vessel, asked me my name and my coun- 
try. ' Of what city of Phoenicia are you ?' said he. ' Of none,' 
I replied ; ' but I was taken at sea in a Phoenician vessel, and, 
as a Phoenician, remained a captive in Egypt: under this name 
have I been long a slave ; and by this name I am at length 
set free.' ' Of what country are you then ?' said Narbal. ' I 
am,' said I, ' Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, king of Ithaca — 
an island of Greece. My father has acquired a mighty name 
among the confederate princes who laid siege to Troy ; but the 
gods have not permitted him to return to his kingdom. I 
have sought him in many countries ; and am, like him, perse- 
cuted by Fortune. 1 am wretched, though my life is private, 
and my wishes are few ; I am wretched, though I desire no 
happiness but the endearments' of my family and the protec- 
tion of my father.' 

" Narbal gazed upon me with astonishment, and thought he 
perceived in my aspect something that distinguishes the favor- 
ites of heaven. He was, by nature, generous and sincere ; my 
misfortunes excited his compassion ; and he addressed me with 
a confidence which the gods, doubtless, inspired for my preser- 
vation in the most imminent danger. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK HI. 187 

" ' Telemachus,' said he, * I doubt not the truth of what you 
have told me; such, indeed, are the signs of candor and integ- 
rity which I discover in your countenance, that it is not in my 
power to suspect you of falsehood. I am irresistibly deter- 
mined, by a secret impulse, to believe that you are beloved by 
the gods, whom I have always served, and that it is their 
pleasure I also should love you as my son. I will, therefore, 
give you salutary counsel, for which I ask no return but 
secrecy.' * Fear not,' I said, ' that I should find it difficult to 
be silent ; for, however young, it is long since I learned not to 
reveal my own secret, much less not to betray, under any pre- 
tence, the secret of another." ' By what means,' he inquired, 
* could the habit of secrecy be acquired by a child? I should 
rejoice to learn how that may be attained early, without which 
a prudent conduct is impossible, and every other qualification 
useless.' 

" ' I have been informed,' I answered, ' that when Ulysses 
went to the seige of Troy, he placed me upon his knees, threw 
his arms about me, and after he had kissed me with the utmost 
tenderness, pronounced these words, though I could not then 
understand their import : " my son, may the gods ordain 
me to perish before I see thee again, or may the Fatal Sisters 
cut the thread of thy life while it is yet short, as the reaper 
cuts down a tender flower that is but beginning to bloom, 
may my enemies dash thee in pieces before the eyes of thy 
mother and of me, if thou art one day to be corrupted and 
seduced from virtue ! my friends, I leave with you this son, 
whom I so tenderly love : watch over his infancy ; if you have 
any love for me, keep flattery far from him • teach him self- 
mastery ; and, while he is yet flexible, like a young plant, keep 
him upright. Above all, let nothing be forgotten that may 
render him just, beneficent, sincere, and secret. He that is 
capable of a lie, deserves not the name of a man ; and he that 
know^s not how to be silent, is not worthy to reign." 

" ' I have repeated to you the very words of Ulysses, because 
to me they have been repeated so often, that they perpetually 
occur to my mind ; and I frequently repeat them to myself. 



188 WORKS OF FENELON. 

" ' The friends of my father began very early to teach me 
secrecy, by giving me frequent opportunities to practice it ; and 
I made so rapid a progress in the art, that, while I was yet an 
infant, they communicated to me their apprehensions from the 
crowd of presumptuous rivals that addressed my mother. At 
that time they treated me not as a child, but as a man, whose 
reason might assist them, and in whose firmness they could 
confide : they frequently conferred with me, in private, upon 
the most important affairs; and communicated the schemes 
which had been formed to deliver Penelope from her suitors. 
I exulted in this confidence, which I considered as a proof of 
my real dignity and importance. I was, therefore, ambitious 
to sustain my character, and never suffered the least intimation 
of what had been intrusted to me as a secret, to escape me. 
The suitors often engaged me to talk, hoping that a child who 
had seen or heard any circumstance of importance, would 
relate it without caution or design ; but I had learnt to answer 
them, without forfeiting my veracity or disclosing my secret.' 

" Narbal then addressed me in these terms : ' You see, 
Telemachus, of what power the Phoenicians are possessed, and 
how much their innumerable fleets are dreaded by the neigh- 
boring nations. The commerce which they have extended to 
the Pillars of Hercules, 1 has given them riches which the most 
flourishing countries cannot supply to themselves. Even the 
great Sesostris could never have prevailed against them at sea ; 
and the veterans, by whom he had subjugated all the East, 
found it extremely difficult to conquer them in the field. He 
imposed a tribute, which they have long neglected to pay ; for 
they are too sensible of their ownVealth and power to stoop 
patiently under the yoke of subjection : they have, therefore, 
thrown it off; and the war which Sesostris commenced against 
them has been terminated by his death. The power of Sesos- 
tris was, indeed, rendered formidable by his policy ; but when 



1 That is, the Straits of Gibraltar. The peaks of Calpe and Abyla, the 
former on the European, the latter on the African side of the entrance tc 
the Mediterranean, were called the Miliars of Hercules. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK HI. 189 

without his policy his power descended to his son, it was no 
longer to be dreaded ; and the Egyptians, instead of entering 
Phoenicia with a military force, to reduce to obedience a 
revolted people, have been compelled to call in the assistance 
of the Phoenicians, to deliver them from the oppression of an 
impious tyrant. This deliverance the Phoenicians have effected, 
and added new glory to independence, and new power to wealth. 

" ' But while we deliver others, we are slaves ourselves. O 
Telemachus, do not rashly put your life in the hands of Pyg- 
malion, our king. His hands are already stained with the 
blood of Sichaeus, the husband of Dido his sister ; and Dido, 1 
impatient to revenge his death, has fled, with the greater part 
of the friends of virtue and liberty, in a numerous fleet from 
Tyre, and has laid the foundations of a magnificent city on the 
coast of Africa, which she calls Carthage. An insatiable thirst 
of riches renders Pygmalion every day more wretched and 
more detestable. In his dominions it is a crime to be wealthy : 
avarice makes him jealous, suspicious, and cruel : he persecutes 
the rich, and he dreads the poor. 

" ' But, at Tyre, to be virtuous is yet a greater crime than to 
be wealthy; for Pygmalion supposes that virtue cannot pa- 
tiently endure a conduct that is unjust and infamous ; and, as 
virtue is an enemy to Pygmalion, Pygmalion is an enemy to 
virtue. Every incident torments him with inquietude, per- 
plexity, and apprehension ; he is terrified at his own shadow ; 
and sleep is a stranger to his eves. The gods have punished 
him by heaping treasures before him which he does not dare 
to enjoy ; and that in which alone he seeks for happiness is 
the source of his misery. He regrets whatever he gives ; he 
dreads the loss of the wealth which he possesses, and sacrifices 
every comfort to the acquisition of more. 

u 4 He is scarcely ever to be seen, but sits in the inmost 
recess of his palace, alone, pensive, and dejected ; his friends 
dare not approach him, for to approach him is to be suspected 
as an enemy. A guard, with swords drawn, and pikes levelled, 

1 Fenelon here follows Virgil. See ^Eneid, i. 343, et sequens. 



190 * WORKS OF FENELON. 

surrounds his dwelling with a horrid security. The apart- 
ment in which he hides himself consists of thirty chambers, 
which communicate with each other, and to each of which 
there is an iron door with six bolts. It is never known in 
which of these chamber he passes the night ; and it is said, 
that, the better to secure himself against assassination, he never 
sleeps in the same two nights together. 1 He is equally insensi- 
ble to the joys of society, and to the more refined and tender 
delights of friendship. If he is excited to the pursuit of 
pleasure, he perceives that pleasure is far from him, and sits 
down in despair. His eyes are hollow, eager, and piercing ; 
and he is continually looking round him with a restless and 
inquisitive suspicion. At every noise, however trivial, he 
starts, listens, is alarmed, and trembles. He is pale and ema- 
ciated ; the gloom of care is diffused over his countenance, 
and his brow is contracted into wrinkles. He seldom speaks, 
but he sighs perpetually. The remorse and anguish of his 
mind are discovered by groans, which he endeavors in vain to 
suppress. The richest delicacies of his table are tasteless. 
His children, 2 whom he has made his most dangerous enemies, 
are not the objects of hope, but of terror. He believes himself 
to be in perpetual danger, and attempts his own preservation 
by cutting off all those whom he fears ; not knowing that 
cruelty, in which alone he confides for safety, will inevitably 
precipitate his destruction, and that some of his domestics, 
dreading the effects of his caprice and suspicion, will suddenly 
deliver the world of so horrid a monster. 

"'As for me, I fear the gods; and will, at whatever hazard, 
continue faithful to the king whom they have set over me. I 
had rather he should take away my life than lift my hand 



1 The author here applies to Pygmalion what has been told of Cromwell. 

2 Fenelon seems to allude to Dionysius the Elder, tyrant of Syracuse- 
Cicero (Twc, v. 20) tells the story of him, that, fearing the barber, he 
made his own daughters shave him, and, finally, would not trust the razor 
even to them, when they were grown up, but contrived how they might 
burn off his hair and beard. Valerius Maximus (vii. 13), repeats the 
story. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK frl. 191 

against his, or neglect to defend him against the attempts of 
another. But do not you, O Telemachus, acquaint him with 
the name of your father ; for he will then certainly shut you 
up in prison, hoping that Ulysses, when he returns to Ithaca, 
will pay him a large sum for your ransom.' 

" When we arrived at Tyre, I followed the counsel of Narbal, 
and was soon convinced that all he had related was true ; 
though before, I could scarcely conceive it possible for any man 
to render himself so extremely wretched as he had represented 
Pygmalion. 

" I was the more sensibly touched at the appearances of his 
tyranny and wretchedness, as they had the force of novelty, 
and I said to myself: ' This is the man who has been seeking 
happiness, and imagined it was to be found in unlimited power 
and inexhaustible wealth. Wealth and power he has acquired, 
Dut the acquisition has made him miserable. If he were a 
shepherd, as I lately have been, he would be equally happy in 
the enjoyment of rural pleasures, which, as they are innocent, 
are never regretted ; he would fear neither daggers nor poison, 
but would be the love and the lover of mankind ; he would not 
indeed possess that immense treasure, which, to him who hides 
it, is useless as a heap of sand, but he would rejoice in the 
bounty of nature, by which every want would be supplied. He 
appears to act only by the dictates of his own will ; but he is, 
indeed, the slave of appetite : he is condemned to do the 
drudgery of avarice, and to smart under the scourge of fear 
and suspicion. He appears to have dominion over others, but 
he is not the master even of himself; for, in every irregular 
passion, he has not only a master, but a tormentor.' 

" Such were my reflections upon the condition of Pygmalion, 
without having seen him — for he was seen by none ; and his 
people could only gaze, with a kind of secret dread, upon 
those lofty towers, which were surrounded night and day by 
his guards, and in which he had immured himself, with his 
treasures, as in a prison. I compared this invisible king with 
Sesostris, the mild, the affable, the good ; who was so easy of 
access to his subjects, and so desirous to converse with 



192 WORKS OF FENELON. 

strangers ; so attentive to all who wish to be heard, and so 
inquisitive after truth, which those who surround a throne are 
solicitous to conceal. ' Sesostris,' said I, ' feared nothing, and 
had nothing to fear ; he showed himself to all his subjects as 
to his children ; but by Pygmalion, every thing is to be feared, 
and he fears every thing. This execrable tyrant is in perpetual 
danger of a violent death, even in the centre of his inaccessible 
palace, and surrounded by his guards ; but the good Sesostris, 
when his people were gathered in crowds about him, was in 
perfect safety, like a kind father, who, in his own house, is sur- 
rounded by his children.' 

" Pygmalion gave orders to send back the troops of the isle 
of Cyprus, who, to fulfil a treaty, had assisted his own in their 
expedition to Egypt ; and Narbal took this opportunity to set 
me at liberty. He caused me to pass in review among the 
Cyprian soldiers ; for the king always inquired into the minutest 
incidents with the most scrupulous suspicion. 

" The failing of negligent and indolent princes is the giving 
themselves up, with a boundless and implicit confidence, to the 
discretion of some crafty and iniquitous favorite. The failing 
of Pygmalion was to suspect the most ingenuous and upright. 
He knew not how to distinguish the native features of integrity 
from the mask of dissimulation ; for the good, who disdained 
to approach so corrupt a prince, he had never seen. He had 
been so often defrauded and betrayed, and had so often detected 
every species of vice under the semblance of virtue, in the 
wretches who were about ]jim, that he imagined every man 
walked in disguise, that virtue existed only in idea, and that all 
men were nearly the same. When he found one man fraudu- 
lent and corrupt, he took no care to displace him for another, 
because he took it for granted that another would be as bad. 
And he had a worse opinion of those in whom he discovered 
an appearance of merit, than of those who were most openly 
vicious ; because he believed them to be equally knaves, and 
greater hypocrites. 

" But to return to mvself. The piercing suspicion of the 
king did not distinguish me from the Cyprian soldiers ; but 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK III. 193 

Narbal trembled for fear of a discovery, which would have 
been fatal both to him and to me ; he, therefore, expressed the 
utmost impatience to see me embark ; but I was detained at 
Tyre a considerable time by contrary winds. 

" During this interval I acquainted myself with the manners 
of the Phoenicians, a people that had become famous through 
all the known world. I admired the situation of their city, 
which is built upon an island in the midst of the sea. The 
neighboring coast is rendered extremely delightful by its un- 
common fertility, the exquisite flavor of its fruits, the number 
of towns and villages which are almost contiguous to each 
other, and the excellent temperature of the climate : it is 
sheltered by a ridge of mountains from the burning winds that 
pass over the southern continent, and refreshed by the northern 
breezes that blow from the sea. It is situated at the foot of 
Libanus, 1 whose head is concealed within the clouds, and hoary 
with everlasting frost. Torrents of water, mingled with snow, 
rush from the craggy precipices that surround it ; and at a 
small distance below is a vast forest of cedars, which appear to 
be as ancient as the earth, and almost as lofty as the sky. The 
declivity of the mountain, below the forest, is covered with 
pasture, where innumerable cattle and sheep are continually 
feeding among a thousand rivulets of the purest water. At the 
foot of the mountain, below the pastures, the plain has the ap- 
pearance of a garden, where spring and autumn seem to unite 
their influence to produce at once both flowers and fruit, which 
are never parched by the pestilential heat of the southern 
blast, nor blighted by the piercing cold of the northern tem- 
pest. 

" Near this delightful coast, the island on which Tyre is built 
emerges from the sea. The city seems to float upon the 
waters, and looks like the sovereign of the deep. It is crowded 
with merchants of every nation, and its inhabitants are them- 
selves the most eminent merchants of the world. It appears, 
at first, not to be the city of any particular people, but to be 

1 A mountain of Syria. 



194 JVOKKS OF FENELON. 

common to all, as the centre of their commerce. There are 
two large moles, which, like two arms stretched out into 
the sea, embrace a spacious harbor, which is a shelter from 
every wind. The vessels in this harbor are so numerous, as 
almost to hide the water in which they float ; and the masts 
look at a distance like a forest. All the citizens of Tyre apply 
themselves to trade ; and their wealth does not render them 
impatient of that labor by which it is increased. Their city 
abounds 'with the finest linen of Egypt, and cloth that has 
been doubly dyed with the Tyrian purple 1 — a color which has 
a lustre that time itself can scarcely diminish, and which they 
frequently heighten by embroidery of gold and silver. The 
commerce of the Phoenicians extends to the Straits of Gades; 2 
they have even entered the vast ocean by which the world is 
encircled, and made long voyages upon the Red Sea to islands 
which are unknown to the rest of mankind, from whence they 
bring gold, perfumes, and many animals that .are to be found 
in no other country. 

" I gazed with insatiable curiosity upon this great city, in 
which every thing was in motion ; and where none of those 
idle and inquisitive persons 3 are to be found, who, in Greece, 
saunter about the public places in quest of news, or observe 
the foreigners who come on shore in the port. The men are 
busied in loading the vessels, in sending away or in selling 
their merchandise, in putting their warehouses in order, or in 
keeping an account of the sums due to them from foreign 
merchants. The women are constantly employed in spinning 
wool, in drawing patterns for embroidery, or in folding up rich 
stuffs. 



1 " He was arrayed in a mantle twice steeped in Tyrian purple." — Ovid, 
Fast., ii. 107. Heinsius has collected many similar passages. The purple 
dye, for which Tyre was so famous, was obtained from the"Murex," a 
kind of shell-fish. Garments dyed in it were very costly. 

« Now Cadiz. 

3 "Tell me," says Demosthenes, with terrible invective, in his first 
Philippic, " have you nothing else to do than promenade the public places 
and ask each other — What news . ? " 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK in. 195 

" ' By what means,' said I to Narbal, ' have the Phoenicians 
monopolized the commerce of the world, and enriched them- 
selves at the expense of every other nation ?' ' You see the 
means,' answered Narbal ; ' the situation of Tyre renders it fit 
for commerce ; and the invention of navigation is the peculiar 
glory of our country. If the accounts are to be believed that 
are transmitted to us from the most remote antiquity, the 
Tyrians rendered the waves subservient to their purpose long 
tefcre Typhis and the Argonauts 1 became the boast of Greece : 
they were the first who defied the rage of the billows and the 
tempest on a few floating planks, and fathomed the abysses of 
the ocean. They reduced the theories of Egyptian and Baby- 
lonian 2 science to practice, regulating their course, where there 
was no landmark, by the stars ; 3 and they brought innumer- 
able nations together which the sea had separated. The Tyr 
ians are ingenious, persevering, and laborious; they have, 
besides, great manual dexterity, and are remarkable for tem- 
perance and frugality. The laws are executed with the most 
scrupulous punctuality ; and the people are, among themselves, 
perfectly unanimous; and to strangers, they are, above all 
others, friendly, courteous, and faithful. 4 

" ' Such are the means — nor is it necessary to seek for any 
other— by which they have subjected the sea to their domin- 
ion, and included every nation in their commerce. But if 
jealousy and faction should break in among them; if they 
should be seduced by pleasure, or by indolence ; if the great 
should regard labor and economy with contempt, and the 
manual arts should no longer be deemed honorable ; if pub- 
lic faith should not be kept with the stranger, and the laws of 
a free commerce should be violated ; if manufactures should 



i Cadmus arrived in Greece from Tyre long before the expedition of the 
Argonauts. Typhis was pilot of the ship Argo. 

2 Herodotus (II. cix.) says the Babylonians discovered the pole and the 
sundial, and divided the day into twelve parts. 

a " The Phoenicians," says Pliny {Hist. Nat., vii. 56), " first observed the 
stars in navigation." 

4 "Faithless Tyre," ond " double-tongued Tyrians," say Lucan and Virgil. 



196 WORKS OF FENELON. 

be neglected, and those sums spared which are necessary to 
render every commodity perfect in its kind; — that power, 
which is now the object of your admiration, would soon be at 
an end.' 

" ' But how,' said I, ' can such a commerce be established at 
Ithaca ?' ' By the same means,' said he, ' that I have estab- 
lished it here. Receive all strangers with readiness and hos- 
pitality : let them find safety, convenience, and liberty in your 
ports; and be careful never to disgust them by avarice or 
pride. He that would succeed in a project of gain, must never 
attempt to gain too much, and upon proper occasions must 
know how to lose. Endeavor to gain the good-will of foreign- 
ers ; rather suffer some injury than offend them by doing jus- 
tice to yourself; and especially, do not keep them at a distance 
by a haughty behavior. Let the laws of trade be neither 
complicated nor burdensome ; but do not violate them yourself, 
nor suffer them to be violated with impunity. Always punish 
fraud with severity; nor let even the negligence or prodigality 
of a trader escape ; for follies as well as vice effectually ruin 
trade, by ruining those who carry it on. But above all, never 
restrain the freedom of commerce, by rendering it subservi- 
ent to your own immediate gain. The pecuniary*advantages 
of commerce should be left wholly to those by whose labor it 
subsists, lest this labor, for want of a sufficient motive, should 
cease. There are more than equivalent advantages of another 
kind, which must necessarily result to the prince, from the 
wealth which a free commerce will bring into his State. Com- 
merce is a kind of spring, which, diverted from its natural 
channel, ceases to flow. There are but two things which in- 
vite foreigners — profit and convenience. If you render com- 
merce less convenient, or less gainful, they will insensibly 
forsake you. Those that once depart will never return ; be- 
cause other nations, taking advantage of your imprudence, 
will invite them to their ports, and a habit will soon be con- 
tracted of trading without you. It must indeed be confessed, 
that the glory even of Tyre has for some time been obscured. 
O my dear Telemachus, hadst thou beheld it before the reign 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK III. 197 

of Pygmalion, how much greater would have been thy aston- 
ishment ! The remains of Tyre only are now to be seen — 
ruins which have yet the appearance of magnificence, but will 
shortly be mingled with the dust. O unhappy Tyre, to what 
a wretch art thou subjected ! — thou to whom, as to the sover- 
eign of the world, the sea so lately rolled the tribute of 
every nation ! 

" ' Both strangers and subjects are equally dreaded by Pyg- 
malion. Instead of throwing open our ports to traders of the 
most remote countries, like his predecessors, without any stip- 
ulation or inquiry, he demands an exact account of the num- 
ber of vessels that arrive, the countries to which they belong, 
the name of every person on board, the manner of their trad- 
ing, the kind and value of their commodities, and the time 
they are to continue upon his coast. Nor is this the worst ; 
for he puts in practice all the little artifices of cunning to draw 
the foreign merchants into some breach of his innumerable 
regulations, that under the appearance of justice he may con- 
fiscate their goods. He is perpetually harassing those whom 
he imagines to be most wealthy, and increasing, under various 
pretences, the incumbrances of trade, by multiplying taxes. 
He affects to trade himself; but every one is afraid to deal 
with him. Thus commerce languishes ; foreigners forget, by 
degrees, the way to Tyre, with which they were once so well 
acquainted ; and if Pygmalion persists in a conduct so impol- 
itic and so injurious, our glory and our power will be trans- 
ferred to some other nation which is better governed.' 

" I then inquired of Narbal by what means the Tyrians had 
become so powerful at sea ; for I was not willing to be ignorant 
of any of the arts of government. ' We have,' said he, ' the 
forests of Lebanon, 1 which furnish sufficient timber for build- 
ing ships ; and we are careful to reserve it all for that pur- 
pose, never suffering a single tree to be felled but for the 



1 " They have made all thy ship-boards of fir-trees of Senir : they 
have taken cedars from Lebanon to make masts for thee." — Ezckiel 
xx'ii. 5. 



198 WORKS OF FENELON. 

use of the public. We have also a great number of artificers,' 
who excel in naval architecture.' 

" ' How have you been able to procure these artificers ?' I 
inquired. 

" ' They are the gradual produce,' said he, ' of our own 
country. When those who excel in any art are constantly and 
liberally rewarded, it will soon be practised in the greatest 
possible perfection ; for persons of the highest abilities will al- 
ways apply themselves to those arts by which great rewards 
are to be obtained. But, besides pecuniary rewards, whoever 
excels in any art or science upon which navigation depends, 
receives great honor. A good geometrician is much re- 
spected ; an able astronomer yet more ; and no rewards are 
thought too great for a pilot who excels in his profession. A 
skilful carpenter is not only well paid, but treated well. Even 
a dexterous rower is sure of a reward proportionate to his ser- 
vices ; his provision is the best of its kind ; proper care is 
taken of him when he is sick, and of his wife and children 
when he is absent ; and if he perish by shipwreck, his family 
is provided for. Those who have been in the service a certain 
number of years are dismissed with honor, and enabled to 
spend the remainder of their days without labor or solicitude. 
We are, therefore, never in want of skilful mariners ; for it is 
the ambition of every father to qualify his son for so advanta- 
geous a calling. Boys, almost as soon as they can walk, are 
taught to handle an oar, to manage the sails, and to despise a 
storm. Men are thus rendered willingly subservient to the 
purposes of jrovernment, by an administration so regular that 
it operates with the force of custom ; and by rewards so cer- 
tain, that the impulse of hope is irresistible. By authority 
alone little can ever be effected. Mere obedience, like that of 
a vassal to his lord, is not sufficient ; obedience must be ani- 
mated by affection, and men must find their advantage in 
that labor which is necessary to effect the purposes of others.' 



1 " Thy wise men, Tyrus, that were in thee, were thy pilots." — Ezekid, 
xxvii. 8. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK m. 199 

" After this discourse Narbal carried me to the public store- 
houses, the arsenals, and all the manufactories that related to 
shipping. I inquired minutely into every article, and wrote 
down all that I learnt, lest some useful circumstances should 
afterwards be forgotten. 

" Yet Narbal, who was well acquainted with the temper of 
Pygmalion, and had conceived a zealous affection for me, was 
still impatient for my departure, dreading a discovery by the 
king's spies, who were night and day going about the city ; 
but the wind would not yet permit me to embark. One day 
while we were busied in examining the harbor with more than 
common attention, and questioning several merchants about 
commercial affairs, one of Pygmalion's officers came up to 
Narbal, and said : ' The king has just learnt, from the captain 
of one of the vessels which returned with you from Egypt, 
that you have brought hither a foreigner, who passes for a na- 
tive of Cyprus. It is the king's pleasure that this person be 
immediately secured, and the country to which he belongs 
certainly known, and for this you are to answer with your 
head.' Just at this moment, I had left Narbal at a distance, 
to examine more nearly the proportions of a Tyrian vessel 
which was almost new, and which was said to be the best 
sailer that had ever entered the port ; and I was then putting 
some Questions to the shipwright under whose directions it 
had been built. 

" Narbal answered with the utmost consternation and terror, 
' that the foreigner was really a native of the island of Cyprus, 
and that he would immediately go in search of him ;' but the 
moment the officer was out of sight, he ran to me and ac- 
quainted me with my danger. ' My apprehensions,' said he, 
' were but too just. My dear Telemachus, our ruin is inevita- 
ble : the king, who is night and day tormented with mistrust, 
suspects that you are not a Cyprian, and has commanded me 
to secure your person under pain of death. What shall we 
do ? May the gods deliver us by more than human wisdom, 
or we perish ! I must produce you to the king, but do you 
confidently affirm that you are a Cyprian of the city of Ama- 



200 WORKS OF FENELON. 

thus, and son of a statuary of Yenus. I will confirm your 
account, by declaring that I was formerly acquainted with 
your father ; and perhaps the king, without entering into a 
more severe scfutiny, will suffer you to depart. I see no 
other expedient, by which a chance of life can be procured 
for us both.' 

u To this counsel of Narbal, I answered : * Let an unhappy 
wretch perish, whose destruction is the decree of fate. I can 
die without terror ; and I would not involve you in my calam- 
ity, because I would live without ingratitude ; but I cannot 
consent to lie. I am a Greek ; and to say that I am a Cyp- 
rian, is to cease to be a man. The gods, who know my sin- 
cerity, may, if it is consistent with their wisdom, preserve me 
by their power ; but fear shall never seduce me to attempt my 
own preservation by falsehood.' 

" ' This falsehood,' answered Narbal, ' is wholly without 
guilt, nor can it be condemned even by the gods : it will in- 
jure none ; it will preserve the innocent ; and it will no other- 
wise deceive the king, than as it will prevent his incurring the 
guilt of cruelty and injustice. Your love of virtue is romantic, 
and your zeal for religion superstitious.' 

" ' That it is a falsehood,' said I, ' is to me sufficient proof 
that it can never become a man who speaks in the presence of 
the gods, and is under perpetual and unlimited obligations to 
truth. He who violates truth, as he counteracts the dictates 
of conscience, must offend the gods and injure himself. Do 
not, therefore, urge me to a conduct that is unworthy both of 
you and of me. If the gods regard us with pity, they can 
easily effect our deliverance ; and if they suffer us to perish, 
we shall die martyrs of truth, and leave one example to man- 
kind, that virtue has been preferred to life. My life has been 
already too long, since it has only been a series of misfortunes; 
and it is the danger of yours only, my dear Narbal, that I re- 
gret. Why, alas, should your friendship for a wretched fugi- 
tive be fatal to yourself !' 

" This dispute, which had continued a considerable time, was 
at length interrupted by the arrival of a person, who had run 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK in. 201 

till he was not able immediately to speak ; but we soon learnt 
that he was another of the king's officers, and had been dis- 
patched by Astarbe. 

" Astarbe had beauty that appeared to be more than human, 
and a mind that had almost the power of fascination. Her 
general manner was sprightly, her particular address soft and 
insinuating. But with all this power to please, she was, like 
the Syrens, cruel and malignant. She knew how to conceal 
the worst purposes by inscrutable dissimulation. She had 
gained an absolute ascendency over Pygmalion by her beauty 
and her wit, by the sweetness of her song, and the harmony 
of her lyre. Pygmalion, in the ardor of his passion for this 
mistress, had put away Topha his queen. He thought only 
how he should gratify Astarbe, who was enterprising and am- 
bitious ; and his avarice, however infamous, was scarcely a 
greater curse than his extravagant fondness for this woman. 
But though he was passionately enamored of her, she re- 
garded him with contempt and aversion ; she disguised her 
real sentiments, and appeared to desire life itself only as the 
means of enjoying his society, at the very moment in which 
her heart sickened at his approach. 

" At this time there was, at Tyre, a young Lyctian 1 named 
Malachcn, who was extremely beautiful, but dissolute, voluptu- 
ous, and effeminate. His principal care was to preserve the 
delicacy of his complexion, to spread his flaxen hair in 
ringlets over his shoulders, to perfume his person, adjust his 
dress, and chant amorous ditties to the music of his lyre. Of 
this youth Astarbe became enamored to distraction. He 
declined her favors, because he was himself equally enamored 
of another, and dreaded the jealousy of the king. Astarbe 
perceived herself slighted ; and, in the rage of disappointment, 
resolved that he who rejected her love should at least gratify 
her revenge. She thought of representing Malachon to the 



1 Lydian is the erroneous reading of nearly all editions. Lvctns was an 
important towo in the east of Crete. See the lengthy note in the Lefevre 
edition. 



202 WORKS OF FENELON. 

king as the stranger whom he had been informed Narbal had 
brought into Tyre, and after whom he had caused inquiry to 
be made. 

" In this fraud she succeeded by her own arts of persuasion, 
and by bribing to secrecy all who might have discovered it to 
Pygmalion. As he neither loved virtue himself, nor could 
discover it in others, he was surrounded by abandoned merce- 
naries, who would, without scruple, execute his commands, 
however iniquitous and cruel. To these wretches the author- 
ity of Astarbe was formidable ; and they assisted her to deceive 
the king, lest they should give offence to an imperious woman, 
who monopolized his confidence. Thus Malachon, though 
known to'be a Lyctian by the whole city, was cast into prison, 
as the foreigner whom Narbal had brought out of Egypt. 

" But Astarbe fearing that, if Narbal should come before 
the king, he might discover the imposture, dispatched this 
officer with the utmost expedition, who delivered her commands 
in these words : ' It is the pleasure of Astarbe, that you do not 
discover the stranger whom you brought hither to the king ; 
she requires nothing of you but to be silent, and will herself 
be answerable for whatever is necessary to your justification ; 
but let your friend immediately embark with the Cyprians, 
that he may no more be seen in the city.' Narbal, who re- 
ceived this proposal of deliverance with ecstasy, readily prem- 
ised to fulfil the conditions, and the officer, well satisfied to 
have succeeded in his commission, returned to Astarbe to 
make his report. 

" Upon this occasion, we could not but admire the divine 
goodness, which had so suddenly rewarded our integrity, and 
interposed, almost by a miracle, in favor of them that were 
ready to have sacrificed every thing to truth. 

" We reflected with horror upon a king who had given 
himself up to avarice and sensuality. ' He who is thus suspi- 
cious of deceit,' said we, * deserves to be deceived. He suspects 
the good, and puts himself into the hands of the bad. He 
alone is ignorant of the fraud by which he is overreached. 
Thus, while Pygmalion is made the tool of a shameless woman, 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK in. 203 

the gods render the falsehood of the wicked an instrument for 
the preservation of the righteous, to whom it is less dreadful to 
perish than to lie.' 

"At the very time in which we were making these reflec- 
tions, we perceived the wind change. It now blew fair for the 
Cyprian fleet, and Narbal cried out : ' The gods declare for 
^hee, my dear Telemachus, and will complete thy deliverance ! 
Fly from this cruel, this execrable coast ! ' To follow thee, to 
whatever climate — to follow thee, in life and death — would be 
happiness and honor. But, alas ! Fate has connected me with 
this wretched country : with my country I am born to suffer, 
and perhaps in her ruins I shall perish ! But of what moment 
is this, if my tongue be still faithful to truth, and my heart 
holds fast its integrity ? As for thee, my dear Telemachus, 
may the gods, who guide thee by their wisdom, reward thee 
to the utmost of their bounty by giving and continuing to thee 
that virtue which is pure, generous, and exalted ! Mayest thou 
survive every danger, return in safety to Ithaca, and deliver 
Penelope from the presumption of her suitors ! May thy eyes 
behold, and thy arms embrace, the wise Ulysses ; and may he 
rejoice in a son that will add new honors to his name ! But, 
in the midst of thy felicity, suffer, at least, the sorrows of 
friendship, the pleasing anguish of virtue, to *teal upon thee 
for a moment; and remember unhappy Narbal with a sigh, 
that shall at once express his mi>ery and thy affection.' 

" My heart melted within me as he spoke ; and, when he 
expected my reply, I threw myself upon his neck and bedewed 
it with my tears, but was unable to utter a word : we therefore 
embraced in silence ; and he then conducted me to the vessel. 
While we weighed anchor, he stood upon the beach ; and 
when the vessel was under sail, we looked towards each other 
till the objects became confused, and at length totally dis- 
appeared." 



BOOK IY. 

Calypso interrupts Telemachus in his relation, that he may retire to rest. 
Mentor privately reproves him for having undertaken the recital of his 

• adventures; but as he has begun, advises him to proceed. Telemachus 
relates that during his voyage from Tyre to Cyprus, he dreamed that 
he was protected from Venus and Cupid by Minerva; that he after- 
wards imagined he saw Mentor, who exhorted him to fly from the isle 
of Cyprus ; that when he awaked, the vessel would have perished in a 
storm if he had not himself taken the helm, the Cyprians being all intox- 
icated with wine ; that when he arrived on the island, he saw, with 
horror, the most contagious examples of debauchery; but that Hazael, 
the Syrian, to whom Mentor had been sold, happening to be at Cyprus 
at the same time, brought the two friends together, and took them on 
board his vessel that was bound to Crete ; that during the voyage, he 
had seen Amphitrite drawn in her chariot by sea-horses — a sight infi- 
nitely entertaining and magnificent. 

Calypso, who had till this instant sat motionless, and 
listening with inexpressible delight to the adventures of Te- 
lemachus, now interrupted him, that he might enjoy some 
repose. "It is time," said she, "that, after so many toils, you 
should taste the sweets of sleep. In this island you have 
nothing to fear; every thing, is here subservient to your wishes. 
Open your heart, therefore, to joy, and make room for all the 
blessings of peace which the gods are preparing for you. 
To-morrow, when the rosy 1 fingers of Aurora shall unlock the 
golden doors of the east, and the steeds of Phoebus shall 
mount up from the deep, diffusing the beams of day, 2 and 



* "Rosy-fingered Aurora" we find repeatedly in Homer. 

9 "Tlie day arisen had scarcely sprinkled the tops of the mountains with 
light, when first from the deep gulf the horses of the sun lift up their 
heads, and from their erected nostrils breath forth day." — Virgil, yEn. y 
xii. 114 



TELEMAOHUS. BOOK IV. 205 

driving before them the stars of heaven,' the history of your 
misfortunes, my dear Telemachus, shall.be resumed. You have 
exceeded even your father in wisdom and in courage ; nor has 
Achilles, the conqueror of Hector, nor Theseus, who returned 
from hell, nor even the great Alcides, who delivered the earth 
from so many monsters, displayed either fortitude or virtue 
equal to yours. May one deep and unbroken slumber render 
the night short to you ; though, to me, alas ! it will be weari- 
some and long. With what impatience shall I desire again to 
see you, to hear your voice ; to urge you to repeat what I have 
been told already ; and inquire after what I am still to learn. 
Go then, my dear Telemachus, with that friend whom the 
bounty of the gods has again restored ; retire into the grotto 
which has been prepared for your repose. May Morpheus 
shed his benignest influence upon your eyelids, that are now 
heavy with watching, and diffuse a pleasing languor through 
your limbs, that are fatigued with labor ! May he cause the 
most delightful dreams to sport around you, fill your imagi- 
nation with gay ideas, and keep far from you whatever might 
chase them away too soon !" 

The goddess then conducted Telemachus into the separate 
grotto, which was not less rural or pleasant than her own. In 
one part of it, the lulling murmurs of a fountain invited sleep 
to the weary ; 2 and in another, the nymphs had prepared two 
beds of the softest moss, and covered them with two large 
skins, — one with that of a lion for Telemachus, and the other 
with that of a bear for Mentor. 

Mentor, before he resigned his eyes to sleep, spoke thus to 
Telemachus : " The pleasure of relating your adventures has 
ensnared you ; for, by displaying the dangers which you have 
surmounted by your courage and your ingenuity, you have 
captivated Calypso ; and, in proportion as you have inflamed 
her passions, you have insured your own captivity. Can it be 



1 "Aurora had dispersed the twinkling stars." — Ovid, Mdam., vii. 100. 
* "A rivulet with murmuring noise invites sleep to weary eyelids."— 
Ovid, Meiam., xi. 604. 



206 WORKS OF FENELON. 

hoped that she will suffer him to depart who has displayed 
such power to please ? You have been betrayed to indiscretion 
by your vanity. She promised to relate some stories to you, 
and to acquaint you with the adventures and the fate of Ulys- 
ses ; but she has found means to say much without giving you 
any information, and to draw from you whatever she desired 
to know. Such are the arts of the flatterer and the wanton ! 
"When, Telemachus, will you be wise enough to resist the 
impulse of vanity, and know how to suppress incidents that do 
you honor, when it is not fit that they should be related ? 
Others, indeed, admire the wisdom which you possess at an 
age in which they think folly might be forgiven ; but I can 
forgive you nothing : your heart is known only to me, and 
there is no other who loves you well enough to tell you your 
faults. How much does your father still surpass you in 
wisdom !" 

" Could I then," answered Telemachus, " have refused an 
account of my misfortunes to Calypso ?" " No," replied Men- 
tor ; " but you should have gratified her curiosity only by re- 
citing such circumstances as might have raised her compassion. 
You might have told her that, after having long wandered from 
place to place, you were first a captive in Sicily, and then a 
slave in Egypt. This would have been enough ; and all that 
was more, served only to render that poison more active which 
now rages at her heart, — a poison from which pray the gods 
that thy heart may be defended." 

" But what can now be done ?" continued Telemachus, in a 
calmer tone. "Now," replied Mentor, " the sequel of your 
story cannot be suppressed : Calypso knows too much to be 
deceived in that which she has yet to learn ; and to attempt 
it would be only to displease her. Proceed, therefore, to-mor- 
row, in your account of all that the gods have done for you ; 
and speak another time with more modesty of such actions of 
your own as may be thought to merit praise." 

This salutary advice was received by Telemachus with the 
same friendship with which it was given by Mentor ; and they 
immediately lay down to rest. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IY. 207 

As soon as the first rays of Phoebus glanced upon the 
mountains, Mentor heard the voice of Calypso calling to her 
nymphs in the neighboring wood, and awakened Telemachus. 
" It is time," said he, " to vanquish sleep. Let us now return 
to Calypso, but put no confidence in her honeyed words ; shut 
your heart against her, and dread the delicious poison of her 
praise. Yesterday she exalted you above the wise Ulysses 
your father, and the invincible Achilles ; above Theseus, who 
filled the earth with his fame, and Hercules, who obtained a 
place in the skies. Did you perceive the excess of such adu 
lation, or did you believe her praises to be just? Calypso 
herself laughs in secret at so romantic a falsehood, which she 
uttered, only because she believed you to be so vain as to be 
gratified by the grossest flattery, and so weak as to be imposed 
upon by the most extravagant improbability." 

They now approached the place where they were expected 
by the goddess. The moment she perceived them, she forced 
a smile, and attempted to conceal, under the appearance of 
joy, the dread and anxiety which agitated her bosom ; for she 
foresaw, that, under the direction of Mentor, Telemachus, like 
Ulysses, would elude her snares. " Come," said she, " my dear 
Telemachus, and relieve me from the impatience of curiosity. 
I have dreamed all the night of your departure from Phoenicia 
to seek new adventures in the isle of Cyprus. Let us not, 
therefore, lose another moment ; make haste to satisfy me with 
knowledge, and put an end to the illusions of conjecture." 
They then sat down upon the grass, that was intermingled 
with violets, in the shade of a lofty grove. 

Calypso could not refrain from looking frequently, with the 
most passionate tenderness, at Telemachus ; nor perceive, with- 
out indignation, that every glance of her eye was remarked by 
Mentor. Nevertheless, all her nymphs silently ranged them- 
selves in a semicircle, and leaned forward with the utmost ea- 
gerness of attention. The eyes of the whole assembly were 
ammovably fixed upon Telemachus.' 

1 " All became silent, and fixed their eyes upon him, eagerly attentive." 
—Virgil, JEn., ii. 1. 



208 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Looking downward, and blushing with the most graceful 
modesty, he thus continued his narrative : 

" Our sails had not been long filled with the gentle breath 
of a favoring wind, 1 before the level coast of Phoenicia disap- 
peared. As I was now associated with Cyprians, of whose 
manners I was totally ignorant, I determined to remain silent, 
that I might the better remark all that passed, and recommend 
myself to my companions by the most scrupulous decorum. 
But, during my silence, a deep sleep stole insensibly upon me ; 
the involuntary exercise of all my faculties was suspended ; I 
sunk into the most luxurious tranquillity, and my heart over- 
flowed with delight. 

" On a sudden I thought the clouds parted, and that I saw 
Venus in her chariot drawn by two doves. She appeared in 
all that radiance of beauty, that gayety of youth, that smiling 
softness, and irresistible grace, which Jupiter himself could 
hardly behold with firmness, when first she issued from the foam 
of the sea. I thought she descended with astonishing rapid- 
ity, and in a moment reached the spot on which I stood, that 
she then, with a smile, laid her hand upon my shoulder, and 
pronounced these words : ' Young Greek, thou art now about 
lo enter into my dominions ; thou shalt shortly arrive at that 
fortunate island, where every pleasure springs up under my 
steps. There thou shalt burn incense upon my altars, and I 
will lavish upon thee inexhaustible delight. Let thy heart 
therefore indulge the utmost luxuriance of hope ; and reject 
not the happiness which the most powerful of all the deities 
is now willing to bestow.' 

" At the same time, I perceived the boy Cupid, fluttering, 
on his little wings, around his mother. The lovely softness 
and laughing simplicity of childhood appeared in his counte- 
nance ; but in his eyes, which sparkled with a piercing bright- 
ness, there was something that I could not behold without 
fear, lie looked at me with a smile : but it was the malig - 
nant smile of derision and cruelty. He selected from hie 

» " Neptune filled the sails with favoring winds."— Virgil, JSn., vii. 23. 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK IV. 209 

golden quiver the keenest of all his arrows, and having bent 
his bow, the shaft was just parting from the string, when Mi- 
nerva suddenly appeared, and lifted her immortal aegis before 
me. In her aspect there was not that exquisite softness, that 
amorous languor, which I had remarked in the countenance 
and attitude of Venus. The beauty of Minerva was simple, 
chaste, and unaffected ; all was easy and natural, yet spirited, 
striking, and majestic. The shaft of Cupid, not having suffi- 
cient force to penetrate the shield that intercepted it, fell to 
the ground. The god, touched at once with shame and indig- 
nation, withdrew his bow, and betrayed his disappointment 
with a sigh. ' Away, presumptuous boy !' said Minerva ; ' thou 
hast power only over the base, who prefer the sordid pleasures 
of sensuality to the sublime enjoyments of wisdom, virtue, and 
honor.' 

" Love, blushing with restrained anger, flew away without 
reply ; and Venus again ascending to Olympus, I long traced 
her chariot and her doves in a cloud of intermingled azure 
and gold ; but at length they disappeared. When I turned 
my eyes downwards, I perceived that Minerva also had left 
me. 

" I then fancied myself transported to a delightful garden, 
which revived in my mind the descriptions that I had heard of 
Elysium. Here I met with Mentor, who accosted me in these 
words : ' Fly from this fatal country, this island of contagion, 
where every breeze is tainted with sensuality, where the most 
heroic virtue has cause for fear, and safety can be obtained only 
by flight!' The moment I saw Mentor, I attempted to throw 
my arras about him in an ecstasy of joy ; but I strove in vain 
to lift my feet from the ground, my knees failed under me, and 
my arms closed over an empty shade, which eluded their 
grasp. The effort awoke me, and I perceived that this myste- 
rious dream was a divine admonition. A more animated reso- 
lution against pleasure, and greater diffidence of my own virtue, 
concurred to make me detest the effeminate and voluptuous 
manners of the Cyprians. But I was most affected by the 
apprehension that Mentor was dead, and that, having passed 



210 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the waters of the Styx, he was fixed forever in the blissful 
dwellings of the just. 

" I mused upon this imaginary loss till I burst into tears. 
They asked me why I wept. I replied, that it might easily be 
guessed why an unhappy fugitive, who despaired of returning 
to his country, should weep. In the mean time, however, all 
the Cyprians that were on board gave themselves up to the 
most extravagant merriment. The rowers, to whom a mere 
suspension of labor was a luxury, fell asleep upon their oars ; 
but the pilot, who had quitted the helm, and crowned himself 
with flowers, held in his hand an enormous bowl, which he had 
almost emptied of wine ; and with the rest of the crew, who 
were equally intoxicated, sang such songs to the praise of Venus 
and Cupid, as no man who has a reverence for virtue can hear 
without horror. 

" While they were thus thoughtless of danger, a sudden 
tempest began to trouble the ocean and obscure the sky. The 
winds, as in the wild ardor of unexpected freedom, were heard 
bellowing among the sails ; and the dark waves dashed against 
the sides of the vessel, which groaned under the strokes. Now 
we floated on the ridge of a stupendous billow ; now the sea 
seemed to glide from under us, and leave us buried in the 
abyss. We perceived also some rocks near us, and heard the 
waves breaking against them with a dreadful noise. I had 
often heard Mentor say, that the effeminate and voluptuous are 
never brave ; and I now found by experience that it was true. 
All the Cyprians, whose jollity had been so extravagant and 
tumultuous, now sank under a sense of their danger, and wept 
like women. I heard nothing but the screams of terror, and 
the wailings of hopeless distress. Some lamented the loss of 
pleasures that were never to return, and some made idle vows 
of sacrifice to the gods, if they reached their port in safety. 
None had presence of mind, either to undertake or direct the 
navigation of the vessel. In this situation I thought it my 
duty to save the lives of others, by saving my own. I toci 
the helm into my own hand, for the pilot was so intoxicated as 
to be wholly insensible of the danger of the vessel. I enconr- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IV. 211 

aged the affrighted mariners, and ordered the sails to be taken 
m. The men rowed vigorously, and we soon found ourselves 
clear of the rocks, among which we had beheld all the horrors 
of death at so near a view. 

" This event had the appearance of a dream to the mariners, 
who were indebted to me for their lives ; and they looked upon 
ire with astonishment. We arrived at the isle of Cyprus in 
that month of the Spring which is consecrated to Venus. The 
Cyprians believe this season to be under the influence of the 
goddess, because all nature then appears animated with new 
vigor, and pleasure seems to spring up spontaneously with the 
flowers of the field. 1 

** As soon as I went on shore, I perceived a certain softness 
in the air, which, though it rendered the body indolent and in- 
active, yet brought on a disposition to gayety and wantonness. 
I observed that the inhabitants were so averse to labor, that the 
country, though extremely fertile and pleasant, was almost 
wholly uncultivated. I met, in every street, crowds of women, 
loosely dressed, singing the praises of Venus, and going to 
dedicate themselves to the service of her temple. Beauty and 
pleasure sparkled in their countenances, but their beauty was 
tainted by affectation. The modest simplicity, from which 
female charms principally derive their power, was wanting. 
The dissolute air, the studied look, the flaunting dress, and the 
lascivious gait, the expressive glances that seemed to wander 
in search after those of the men, the visible emulation who 
should kindle the most ardent passion, and whatever else I 
discovered in these women, moved only my contempt and 
aversion; and I was disgusted by all. that they did with a 
desire to please. 

" I was conducted to a temple of the goddess, of which there 



1 " And no season was there more becoming for Venus than the Spring ; 
in Spring the earth is bounteous ; in Spring the soil is unbound ; then does 
the herbage raise its head, having burst the ground ; then from the swell- 
ing bark does the shoot put forth the bud ; and the lovely Venus is de- 
serving of the lovely season." — Ovid, Fasti, iv. 125. 



212 WORKS OF FENELON. 

are several in the island ; for she is worshipped at Cythera, 
Idalia, and Paphos. That which I visited was at Cythera. 
The structure, which is of marble, is a complete peristyle ; 
and the columns are so large and lofty, that its appearance is 
extremely majestic : on each front, over the architrave and 
frieze, are large pediments, on which the most entertaining 
adventures of the goddess are represented in bas-relief. There 
is a perpetual crowd of people with offerings at the gate. 

" Within the limits of the consecrated ground, no victim is 
ever slain ; the fat of bulls and heifers is never burnt, as at 
other temples; nor are the rites of pleasure profaned with 
their blood. The beasts that are here offered, are only presented 
before the altar, nor are any accepted, but those that are 
young, white, and without blemish ; they are dressed with 
purple fillets, embroidered with gold, and their horns are deco- 
rated with gilding and flowers : after they have been presented, 
they are led to a proper place at a considerable distance, and 
killed for the banquet of the priests. 

"Perfumed liquors are also offered, and wines sweeter 
than nectar. The habit of the priests is a long white robe, 
fringed with gold at the bottom, and bound around them with 
a golden girdle. The richest aromatics of the East burn night 
and day upon the altars, and the smoke rises in a cloud of 
fragrance to the skies. All the columns of the temple are 
adorned with festoons ; all the sacrificial vessels are of gold ; 
the whole building is surrounded by a consecrated grove of 
odoriferous myrtle. None are permitted to present the victims 
to the priest, or to kindle the hallowed fire, but boys and girls 
of consummate beauty. But this temple, however magnifi- 
cent, was rendered infamous by the dissolute manners of che 
votaries. 

" What I saw in this place struck me at first with horror ; 
but at length, by insensible degrees, it became familiar. I was 
no longer alarmed ,at the appearance of vice ; the manners of 
the company had a kind of contagious influence upon me : my 
innocence was universally derided ; and my modesty and re- 
serve became the sport of impudence and buffoonery. Every 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK IV. 213 

M*t was practised to excite my passions, to ensnare me by 
temptation, to kindle the love of pleasure in my breast. I 
perceived that I was every day less capable of resistance ; the 
influence of education was surmounted ; my virtuous resolu- 
tions melted away. I could no longer struggle against the 
evils that pressed upon me on every side ; and from dreading 
vice, I came at length to be ashamed of virtue. I was like a 
man who attempts to swim a deep and rapid river ; his first 
efforts are vigorous, and he makes way against the stream ; 
but, if the shores are steep, and he cannot rest himself upon 
the bank, hs grows weary by degrees; his strength is ex- 
hausted ; his limbs become stiff with fatigue ; and he is carried 
away by the torrent. 

" Thus my eyes began to grow dim to the deformity of vice, 
and my heart shrank from the toil of virtue. I could no 
longer call in the power of reason to my assistance, nor re- 
member the example of my father with emulation. The 
dream, in which I had seen Mentor in the fields of Elysium, 
repressed the last feeble effort of my virtue. A pleasing 
languor stole insensibly upon me ; I felt the seductive poison 
glide from vein to vein, and diffuse itself through every limb, 
with a secret satisfaction. Yet, by sudden starts, I deplored 
my captivity with sighs and tears ; sometimes I pined with re- 
gret, and sometimes raved with indignation. ' How wretched 
a period of life,' said I, 'is youth ! Wherefore did the gods, 
who cruelly sport with the calamities of men, ordain them to 
pass through that state which is divided between the sports of 
folly and the agonies of desire ? Why is not my head already 
hoary, and why do not my steps falter on the brink of the 
grave? Why am I not already like Laertes, whose son is my 
father ? Death itself would be sweeter than the shameful 
weakness of which I am now conscious ! ' 

" But these exclamations had no sooner burst from me, than 
my anguish would abate ; my conscience, lulled by the opiates 
of sensuality, would again cease to be susceptible of shame, 
till some sudden thought would rouse me once more to sensi- 
bility, and sting me with yet keener remorse. In this state of 



214 WORKS OP FENELON 

perplexity and anguish, I frequently wandered about in the 
consecrated grove, like a hart wounded by the hunters : the 
fleet hart reaches the distant forest in a moment, but he car- 
ries the tormenting shaft in his side : 1 thus I vainly attempted 
to escape from myself; but nothing could alleviate the anguish 
of my breast. 

" I was one day in this situation, when, at some distance be- 
fore me, in the most gloomy part of the grove, I discovered 
Mentor; but upon a nearer approach, his countenance ap- 
peared so pale, and expressed such a mixture of grief and 
austerity, that I felt no joy in his presence. ' Can it. be thou,' 
I exclaimed, ' my dearest friend, my only hope ! Can it be 
thou thyself in very deed ; or do I thus gaze upon a fleeting 
illusion ? Is it Mentor ? or is it the spirit of Mentor, that is 
still touched with my misfortunes ? Art not thou numbered 
among the happy spirits, who rejoice in the fruition of their 
own virtue, to which the gods have superadded the pure and 
everlasting pleasures of Elysium ? Speak Mentor, dost thou 
yet live ? Am I again happy in thy counsel, or art thou only 
the manes of my friend?' As I pronounced these words, I 
ran towards him breathless and transported. He calmly waited 
for me, without advancing a single step; but the gods only 
know with what joy I perceived that he filled my grasp. ' No, 
it is not an empty shade ; I hold him fast ; 1 embrace my 
dear Mentor ! ' Thus I expressed the tumult of my mind in 
broken exclamations ; till, bursting into tears, I hung upon his 
neck without power to speak. He continued to look stead- 
fastly at me with a mixture of grief, tenderness, and compassion. 

" 'Alas !' said I, ' whence art thou come ? What dangers 
have surrounded me in thy absence ! and what should I now 
have done without thee ?' Mentor, not regarding my ques- 
tions, cried out in a voice that shook me with terror : * Fly ! 

1 " Like a wounded deer, whom, off her guard, a shepherd pursuing 
with his darts hus pierced at a distance in the Cretan wood;*, and unknow- 
ingly [in the woundj hath left the winged steel: she, flying, bounds over 
the Dictsean woods and glades: the fatal shaft sticks in her side." — Virgil, 
Jim,., iv. 69. 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK IV. 215 

delay not a moment to fly. The very fruits of this soil are 
poison ; the air is pestilential ; the inhabitants themselves are 
contagious, and speak only to infuse the most deadly venom. 
Sordid and infamous sensuality, the most dreadful evil that 
issued from the box of Pandora, corrupts every heart, and eradi- 
cates every virtue. Fly ! wherefore dost thou linger ? Fly ! 
cast not one look behind thee ; nor let even thy thoughts return 
tc this accursed island for a moment.' 

" While he yet spoke, I perceived, as it were, a thick cloud 
vanish from before me, and my eyes were once more illumi- 
nated with the rays of pure light. My heart was elated with a 
peaceful yet vigorous joy, very different from the dissolute and 
tumultuous pleasures of desire : one is the joy of phrensy and 
confusion, a perpetual transition from raging passion to the 
keenest remorse ; the other is the calm and equal felicity of 
reason, which, like divine beatitude, can neither satiate nor be 
exhausted. It filled all my breast, and overflowed in tears ; 
nor have I found on earth any higher enjoyment than thus to 
weep. ' Happy,' said I, ' are those by whom virtue vouchsafes 
to be seen in all her beauty ! Thus to behold her is to love her ; 
and to love her is to be happy.' 

" Biit my attention was recalled to Mentor. ' I must leave 
you,' said he ; ' nor can my stay be protracted a moment.' 
* Whither dost thou go, then V I responded. ' To what deserts 
will I not follow thee ! Think not to depart without me, for I 
will rather die at thy feet.' Immediately I caught hold of 
him, and held him with all my force. ' It is in vain,' said he, 
' that thy zeal attempts to detain me. I was sold by Metophis 
to the Arabs or Ethiopians. 1 They, having gone on a trading 
journey to Damascus 2 in Syria, determined to part with me, 
imagining that they could sell me for a large sum to one 
Hazael, a man who was seeking after a Grecian slave, to 
acquaint him with the manners of the country, and instruct 
him in the sciences. 



1 The Arabs and Ethiopians are confounded without reason. 
3 The city still bears the same nan; e. 



216 WORKS OF FENELON. 

" ' I was purchased by Hazael at a very high price. The 
knowledge which he soon acquired from me of the Grecian 
policy, inclined him to go into Crete, 1 to study the wise laws of 
Minos. The voyage was immediately undertaken ; but we were 
driven, by contrary winds, to Cyprus ; and he has taken this 
opportunity to make his offering at the temple. I see him 
now coming out ; a favorable wind already fills our sails, and 
calls us on board. Farewell, my dear Telemachus ; a slave 
who fears the gods cannot dispense with his obligation to 
attend his master. The gods have made me the property of 
another ; and they know that if I had any right in myself, I 
would transfer it to you alone. Farewell ! remember the 
achievements of Ulysses and the tears of Penelope ; remem- 
ber, also, that the gods are just. Ye powers, who are the pro- 
tectors of the innocent, in what a country am I compelled to 
leave Telemachus !' 

" ' No,' said I, ' my dear Mentor, here thou canst not leave 
me ; for I will rather perish than suffer thee to depart without 
me. But has thy Syrian master no compassion ? Will he 
tear thee, by violence, from my arms ? He must either take 
away my life, or suffer me to follow thee. Thou hast thyself 
exhorted me to fly ; why, then, am I forbidden to fly with 
thee ? I will speak myself to Hazael ; perhaps he may regard 
my youth and my distress with pity : he, who is so enamored 
of wisdom as to seek her in distant countries, cannot surely 
have a savage and insensible heart. I will throw myself at his 
feet ; I will embrace his knees ; I will not suffer him to depart, 
till he has consented that I may follow thee. My dear Men- 
tor, I will wear the chains of slavery with thee ! I will offer 
myself to Hazael ; and if he rejects me, my lot is thrown ; and I 
will seek reception, where I know I shall find it, in the grave.' 

" Just as I had pronounced these words, Mentor was called 
by Hazael, before whom I immediately fell prostrate on the 
ground. Hazael, who was astonished to see a stranger in that 
posture, asked what I would request. ' I request my life,' said 

1 The island of Candia. 



TELEMACHTTS. BOOK IV. 217 

I ; * for, if I am not permitted to follow Mentor, who is your 
servant, I must die. I am the son of the great Ulysses, who 
surpassed in wisdom all the Grecian princes by whom Troy, a 
city famous throughout all Asia, was overturned. But think 
not that I speak of my birth to exact a tribute to my vanity ; 
I mean only to strengthen the claim of misfortune to thy pity. 

I have wandered from coast to coast, in search of my father, 
with this man, whom friendship has made a father to me. 
Fortune has at length completed my calamity, by taking him 
from me : he is now thy slave ; let me, therefore, be thy slave 
also. If thou art, indeed, a lover of justice, and art going to 
Crete to acquaint thyself with the laws of Minos, thou wilt not 
resist the importunity of my distress. Thou seest the son of 
a mighty prince reduced to sue for slavery, as the only possible 
condition of comfort. There was a time when I preferred 
ieath to servitude in Sicily ; but the evils which I there suf- 
<;red were but the first essays of the rage of fortune. I now 

tremble, lest I should not be admitted into that state, which 
then I would have died to shun. May the gods look down on 
my misfortunes, and may Hazael remember Minos, whose 
wisdom he admires, and whose judgment shall, in the realms 
of Pluto be passed upon us both.' 

" Hazael, looking upon me with great complaisance and hu- 
manity, gave me his hand and raised me from the ground. 

I I am not ignorant,' said he, ' of the wisdom and virtue of 
Ulysses ; I have been often told by Mentor what glory he 
acquired among the Greeks ; and fame has made his name 
familiar to all the nations of the East. Follow me, son of 
Ulysses ; I will be your father, till you find him from whom 
you have derived your being. If I had no sense of the glory 
of Ulysses, or of his misfortunes, or of yours, the friendship 
which I bear to Mentor would alone induce me to take care of 
you. I bought him indeed as a slave, but he is now mine by 
a nobler connection ; for the money that he cost me procured 
me the dearest and most valuable of all my friends. In him 
I have found that wisdom which I sought ; to him I owe all 
the love of virtue that I have acquired. This moment, there- 

10 



218 WORKS OF FENELON. 

fore, I restore his freedom, and continue thine : I cenovT.co 
your service, and require only your esteem.' 

"The most piercing anguish was now changed in a moment 
to unutterable joy. I perceived myself delivered from total 
ruin ; I was approaching my country ; I was favored with as- 
sistance that might enable me to reach it ; I had the consola- 
tion of being near a person whose love for me had no founda- 
tion but the love of virtue ; and whatever else could contrib- 
ute to my felicity was comprehended in my meeting with 
Mentor to part no more. 

" Hazael proceeded directly to the port, followed by Mentor 
and myself, and we all embarked together. The peaceful 
waves were divided by our oars ; a gentle breeze, which 
sported in our sails, seemed, as it were, to animate our bark, 
and impel it forward with an easy motion. Cyprus quickly 
disappeared. Hazael, who was impatient to know my senti- 
ments, asked me what I thought of the manners of that 
island. I told him ingenuously the dangers to which my 
youth had been exposed, and the conflict which had agitated 
my bosom, lie was touched at my horror of vice ; and cried 
out : ' Venus, I acknowledge thy power, and that of thy son ; 
I have burnt incense upon thy altars ; but forgive me if I de- 
test that infamous effeminacy which prevails in thy dominions, 
and the brutal sensuality which is practised .at thy feasts.' 

" He then discoursed with Mentor of that first Power which 
created the heaven and the earth ; of that infinite and immu- 
table intelligence which communicates itself to all, but is not 
divided ; of that sovereign and universal truth which illumi- 
nates intellectual nature, as the sun enlightens the material 
world. ' He who has never received this pure emanation of 
divinity,' said Hazael, ' is as blind as those who are born with- 
out sight ; he passes through life in darkness, like that which 
involves the polar regions, where the night is protracted to half 
the year ;' he believes himself to be wise, and is a fool ; he 



1 How should a Syrian, in the time of Ulysses, know this? It may be 
answeied, tl-at he was taught by Minerva, the goddess of wisdom. 



'^LEMACHUS. BOOK IV. 219 

imagines that his eye comprehends every object, and he sees 
nothing, or, at most, he perceives only some fleeting illusions 
by a glimmering and deceitful light, some unsubstantial vapors, 
that are every moment changing their color and shape, and at 
length fade into total obscurity. Such is the state of every 
man who is captivated by the pleasures of sense, and allured 
by the phantoms of imagination. Indeed, none are worthy the 
name of men but those who walk by the dictates of eternal 
reason, who love and follow the guiding ray that is vouch- 
safed from above. It is by this reason that we are inspired 
when our thoughts are good ; and by it we are reproved when 
they are evil. From it we derive intelligence and life. It is 
an ocean of light : our minds are but small streams that issue 
from it and are quickly reabsorbed in the deep from which 
they flowed.' 

" This discourse, indeed, I did not perfectly comprehend ; 
yet I perceived something in it that was elevated and refined ; 
and my heart caught fire at the beams of truth which glanced 
within the verge of my understanding. They proceeded to 
talk of the origin of the gods, of heroes, of poets, of the 
golden age, and of the universal deluge ; of the river of obliv- 
ion, in which the souls of the dead are plunged ; of the per- 
petual punishment that is inflicted upon the wicked in the 
gloomy gulf of Tartarus ; and of that happy tranquillity which 
is enjoyed in the fields of Elysium by the spirits of the just, 
who exult in the assurance that it shall last forever. 

" While Hazael and Mentor were discoursing upon these 
ionics, we perceived several dolphins approaching, whose scales 
were varied with azure and gold. Their sport swelled the sea 
into waves, and covered it with foam. These were followed 
by tritons, who with their spiral shells emulated the music of 
the trumpet. In the midst of them appeared the chariot of 
Amphitrite, drawn by sea-horses wdiiter than snow, which, di 7 
viding the waves as they passed, left behind tlfem long furrows 
in the deep. Fire sparkled in their eyes, and from their nos- 
trils issued clouds of smoke. The chariot of the goddess was 
a shell, whiter and brighter than ivory, of a wonderful figure ; 



220 WORKS OF FEKELON. 

and it was mounted upon wheels of gold. It seemed almost 
to fly over the level surface of the water. A great number of 
young nymphs swam in a crowd after the chariot ; their hair, 
which was decorated with flowers, flowed loosely behind them, 
and wantoned in the breeze. The goddess held in one hand 
a sceptre of gold, with which she awed the waves to obedi- 
ence ; and, with the other, she held the little god Palemon, 
her son, whom she suckled upon her lap. Such sweetness 
and majesty were expressed in her countenance, that the re- 
bellious winds dispersed at her appearance, and gloomy tem- 
pests howled only at a distance. Tritons guided the horses 
with golden reins. A large purple sail waved above, which 
was but half distended by a multitude of little Zephyrs, who 
labored to swell it with their breath. In the mid air appeared 
iEolus, busy, restless, and vehement. His wrinkled and morose 
countenance, his threatening voice, his shaggy brows, which 
hung down to his beard, and the sullen austerity that gleamed 
in his eyes, awed the hurricanes, of the north to silence, and 
drove back the clouds. Whales of an enormous size, and all 
the monsters of the deep, that caused the sea to ebb and flow 
with their nostrils, rushed from their secret recesses, to gaze 
upon the goddess." ' 



» The whole passage is in imitation of Virgil (^£7?.., v. 819). "Along 
the surface of the seas he [Neptune] nimbly glides in his azure car. The 
waves subside, and the swelling ocean smooths its liquid pavement under 
the thundering axle: the clouds fly off the face of the expanded sky. 
Then [appear] the various forms of his retinue : unwieldy whales, and the 
aged train of Glaucus, and Palemon, Ino's son, the swift Tritons, and che 
whole band of Phorcus." Why Fenelon makes Palemon the son of Am- 
phitrite, wo know not. 



BOOK Y. 

Telemachus relates, that when he arrived at Crete, he learnt that Idome- 
neus, the king of that island, had, in consequence of a rash vow, sacri- 
ficed hi3 only son ; that the Cretans, to revenge the murder, hud driven 
him out of the country ; that after long uncertainty they were then 
assembled to elect a new sovereign ; that he was admitted into the as- 
sembly ; that he obtained the prize in various exercises; having also 
resolved the questions that had been recorded by Minos in the book 
of his laws, the sages, who were judges of the contest, and all the 
people, seeing his wisdom, would have made him king ; that he refused 
the royalty of Crete to return to Ithaca; that he proposed Mentor, but 
that Mentor also refused to be king; that the Cretans then pressing 
Mentor to appoint a king for them, he relates to them what he heard of 
the virtues of Aristodemus, whom they immediately proclaimed ; that 
Mentor and Telemachus having embarked for Italy, Neptune, to gratify 
the resentment of Venus, shipwrecked them on the island of Calypso, 
where the goddess received them with hospitality and kindness. 

" After the goddess and her train disappeared, we began to 
discover the mountains of Crete, although we could jet 
scarcely distinguish them from the clouds of heaven and the 
waves of the sea. Bat it was not long before the summit of 
Mount Ida 1 was seen, towering above the neighboring moun- 
tains, as the branching horns 2 of a stag are distinguished 
among the young fawns that surround him. By degrees we 
discovered moie distinctly the coast of the island, which had 
the appearance of an amphitheatre. In Crete, the soil appeared 
to us as fertile and enriched with every kind of fruit by the 
labor of its inhabitants, as, in Cyprus, it had appeared wild and 
uncultivated. 

" We perceived innumerable villages that were well built, 
towns that were little inferior to cities, and cities that were in 

1 " In the middle of the sea lies Crete, the island of mighty Jupiter, where 
is Mount Ida."— Virgil, ^En., iii. 104. 
* " The branching horns of a long-lived stag. 1 ' — Virgil, Eel., vii. 30. 



222 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the highest degree magnificent. There was no field on which 
the husbandman had not impressed the characters of diligence 
and labor ; the plough was everywhere to be traced ; and there 
was scarcely a bramble or a weed to be found in the island. 
"We remarked, with pleasure, the deep valleys in which numer- 
ous herds of cattle were grazing among many rivulets that 
enriched the soil ; the sheep that were feeding on the declivity 
of the hills ; the spacious plains that were covered with the 
golden bounty of Ceres ; and the mountains that were adorned 
with the lively verdure of the vine, and with clusters of grapes 
already tinged with blue, and promising the blessing of Bac- 
chus, which soothes anxiety to peace and animates weariness 
to new vigor. 

" Mentor told us that he had before been in Crete, and ac- 
quainted us with whatever he knew of the country. ' This 
island,' said he, ' which is admired by all foreigners, and famous 
for its hundred cities, 1 produces all the necessaries of life in 
great plenty for its inhabitants, although they are almost innu- 
merable ; for the earth is always profusely bountiful to those 
who cultivate it, and its treasures are inexhaustible. The 
greater the number of inhabitants in any country, the greater 
plenty they enjoy, if they are not idle ; nor have they any 
cause to be jealous of each other. The earth, like a good 
mother, multiplies her gifts in proportion to the number of her 
children, who merit her bounty by their labor. The ambition 
and the avarice of mankind are the only source of their calam- 
ities ; every individual wishes to possess the portion of all, and 
becomes wretched by the desire of superfluities. If men would 
be content with the simplicity of nature, and wish only to 
satisfy their real necessities, plenty, cheerfulness, domestic 
concord, and public tranquillity would be uninterrupted and 
universal. 

" ' A deep knowledge of these important truths was the 



1 Homer, in the Iliad (ii. 649), calls Crete the " hundred-citied ;" but in 
the Odyssey (xix. 174), he gives to Crete but ninety cities. Horace follows 
the Iliad: " Crete distaflsguished for a hundred cities." 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK V. 223 

glory of Minos, the wisest of legislators and the best of kings. 
All the wonders of this island are the effects of his laws. The 
education which he prescribed for children renders the body- 
healthy and robust, and forms an early habit of frugality and 
labor. That every species and degree of voluptuousness will 
debilitate both the body and the mind, is an established maxim; 
and no pleasure is proposed as the object of desire, but that of 
becoming invincible by heroic virtue and distinguished by 
superior glory. Courage is not considered as the contempt of 
death only in the field of battle, but also as the contempt of 
superfluous wealth and shameful pleasure. And three vices 
are punished in Crete, which us every other country are suffered 
with impunity-^-ingratitude, dissimulation, and avarice. 

" ' It might, perhaps, be expected that there should be some 
law against luxury and pomp ; but at Crete luxury and pomp 
are not known. Every man labors, and no man thinks of be- 
coming rich : labor is thought to be sufficiently recompensed 
by a life of quiet and regularity, in which all that the wants of 
nature have made necessary is enjoyed in plenty and in peace. 
No spiendid palace, no costly furniture, no magnificent apparel, 
no voluptuous festivity, is permitted. The clothing of the in- 
habitants is, indeed, made of the finest wool, and dyed of the 
most beautiful color, but is perfectly plain, and without em- 
broidery. Their meals, at which they drink little wine, are 
extremely temperate, consisting chiefly of bread, such fruits as 
the season produces, and milk. If they ever taste animal food, 
it is in a small quantity, plainly dressed, and of the coarsest 
kind ; for they always reserve the finest cattle for labor, that 
agriculture may flourish. The houses are neat, convenient, 
and pleasant, but without ornament. Architecture is, indeed, 
well known among them, in its utmost elegance and magnifi- 
cence, but the practice of this art is reserved for the temples of 
the gods, and it is thought presumptuous in a mortal to have 
a dwelling like theirs. The wealth of the Cretans consists in 
health, vigor, courage, domestic quiet and concord, public 
liberty, plenty of all that is necessary, contempt of all that is 
superfluous, habits of industry, abhorrence of idleness, emula- 



224 WORKS OF FENELON. 

tion in virtue, submission to the laws, and reverence of the 
gods.' 

" I inquired in what the authority of the king consisted ; and 
Mentor answered : * His authority over the subject is absolute, 
but the authority of the law is absolute over him. His power 
to do good is unlimited, but he is restrained from doing evil. 
The laws have put the people into his hands as the most valu- 
able deposit, upon condition that he shall treat them as his 
children. It is the intent of the law that the wisdom and 
equity of one man shall be the happiness of many, and not that 
the wretchedness and slavery of many should gratify the pride 
and luxury of one. The king ought to possess nothing more 
than the subject, except what is necessary to alleviate the 
fatigue of his station, and impress upon the minds of the people 
a reverence of that authority by which the laws are executed. 
Moreover, the king should indulge himself less, as well in ease 
as in pleasure, and should be less disposed to the pomp and 
the pride of life than any other man ; he ought not to be dis- 
tinguished from the rest of mankind by the greatness of his 
wealth, or the variety of his enjoyments, but by superior wis- 
dom, more heroic virtue, and more splendid glory. Abroad 
he ought to be the defender of his country, by commanding 
her armies ; and at home, the judge of his people, distributing 
justice among them, improving their morals, and increasing 
their felicity. It is not for himself that the gods have intrusted 
him with royalty : he is exalted above individuals, only that he 
may be the servant of the people ; to the public he owes all 
his time, all his attention, and all his love ; he deserves dignity 
only in proportion as he gives up private enjoyments for the 
public good. 

" ' Minos directed that his children should not succeed to his 
throne, but upon condition that they should govern by these 
maxims. He loved his people yet more than his family ; and 
by this wise institution he insured power and happiness to his 
kingdom. Thus did Minos, the peaceful legislator, eclipse the 
glory of mighty conquerors, who sacrificed nations to their own 
vanity, and imagined they were great; and his justice has 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK V. 225 

y-:A-:ed him on a more awful tribunal in the world of spirits, 
where he distributes rewards and punishments as the supreme 
judge of the dead.' 

" While Mentor was thus discoursing, we reached the island. 
We there saw the celebrated labyrinth which had been built 
by Daedalus in imitation of that of much larger extent which we 
had seen in Egypt. While we were contemplating this curi- 
ous edifice, we perceived all the coast covered with a multitude 
of people, who gathered in a crowd at a place not far distant 
from the sea. We inquired the cause of this commotion, and 
our curiosity was immediately gratified by a Cretan, whose 
name was Nausicrates. 

" 4 Idomeneus,' said he, ' the son of Deucalion, and grandson 
of Minos, accompanied the other princes of Greece in their 
expedition against Troy. After the destruction of that city, 
he set sail for Crete, but was overtaken by so violent a tem- 
pest, that the pilot, and all others on board the vessel, who 
were skilled in navigation, believed shipwreck to be inevitable. 
Death was present to every imagination ; every one thought 
he saw the abyss open to swallow him up ; and every one de- 
plored the misfortune, which did not leave him the mournful 
hope of that imperfect rest to which the spirits of the dead 
are admitted beyond the waters of the Styx, after funeral rites 
have been paid to the body. Idomeneus, lifting up his hands 
and his eyes to heaven, and invoking Neptune, cried out : ' O 
mighty Deity, to whom belong the dominions of the deep, 
vouchsafe to hear me in this uttermost distress! If thou wilt 
protect me from the fury of the waves, and restore me in 
safety to my country, I will offer up to thee the first living ob- 
ject that I see on my return.' 

" ' In the mean time, his son hasted to meet him with all 
the ardor of filial affection, and pleased himself with the 
thought of receiving the first embrace. Unhappy youth ! He 
knew not that to hasten to his father was to rush upon de- 
struction. Idomeneus, escaping the tempest, arrived at his 
port, and returned thanks to Neptune for having heard his 
vow ; but he was soon sensible of the fatal effects it would 

10* 



226 WORKS OF FENELOJST. 

I 

produce. A certain presage of misfortune made him repen'i 
his indiscretion with the utmost anguish of mind ; he dreaded 
his arrival among his people, and thought with horror of meet- 
ing those who were most dear to him. But Nemesis, a cruel 
and inexorable goddess, who is ever vigilant to punish mankind, 
and rejoices to humble the mighty and the proud, impelled 
him forward with a fatal and invisible hand. He proceeded 
from the vessel to the shore ; but he had scarcely ventured to 
lift up his eyes, when he beheld his son. He started back, 
pale and trembling. He turned his eyes on every side to find 
another victim to whom he was less tenderly allied, but it was 
too late ! His son sprang to him, and threw his arms around 
his neck ; but perceived, with astonishment, that instead of re- 
turning his caresses he stood motionless, and at length burst 
into tears. 

" ' my father,' said he,. ' what is the cause of this sorrow ? 
After so long an absence, art thou grieved to ret rn to thy 
people, and restore happiness to thy son ? In what, alas ! have 
I offended ? Thy eyes are still turned from me, as if they 
loathed or dreaded to behold me.' The father, overwhelmed 
with grief, was not yet able to reply. At length, heavily sigh- 
ing, he cried out : ' Neptune, what have I promised thee ? 
On what condition hast thou preserved me from shipwreck ? 
Oh, leave me again to the billows and the rocks I Let n,e 
be dashed to pieces, and swallowed up in the deep; but pre- 
serve my son. Cruel and unrelenting god 1 let my blood be 
accepted as a recompense for his!' Speaking thus, he drew 
his sword, and attempted to plunge it in his bosom ; but those 
who stood near him held back his hand. 

" ' Sophronimus, a hoary prophet, who had long interpreted 
the will of the gods, assured him that Neptune might be satis- 
fied without the death of his son. ' Your vow,' said he, ' was 
rash ; the gods are not honored, but offended by cruelty. Do 
not, then, add one enormity to another, and violate the laws 
of nature to accomplish that vow which it was a crime to make. 
Select a hundred bulls, whiter than snow ; decorate the altar 
of Neptune with flowers; let these victims be thy blameless 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 227 

offering, and let a cloud of grateful incense ascend in honor of 
the god.' 

" ' Idomeneus heard this address in an attitude of despera- 
tion, and without reply ; his eyes sparkled with fury, his 
visage became ghastly, his color changed every moment, and 
his whole body shook with the agony of his mind. His son 
was touched with his distress; and, having no wish but to 
relieve it, said : ' My father, here I am. Delay not to appease 
the god to whom thou hast vowed, nor bring down his ven- 
geance upon thy head. Since thy life can be redeemed with 
mine, I will die content. Strike, then, my father, and fear 
not that, at the approach of death, I shall show a weakness 
that is unworthy of thy son !' 

" ' At this moment, Idomeneus, starting from his posture with 
the sudden violence of phrensy, as if roused by the scourge of 
the infernal furies, surprised the vigilance of those who had 
their eyes upon him, and plunged his sword in the bosom of 
his son,' He drew it hastily back ; and, while it was yet 
warm, made an effort to sheath it a second time in his own 
breast : but in this he was again prevented. 

" ' The youth, who immediately fell, lay weltering in his blood : 
his eyes were suffused with the shades of death ; he attempted 
to open them ; but, not being able to bear the light, 2 they 
were immediately closed in everlasting darkness. As a lily of 
the field, when its root is cut away by the ploughshare, being no 
longer supported by the stalk, languishes upon the ground ; 
and, though it does not immediately lose all the lustre of its 
beauty, yet is no more nourished by the earth, its life being 
extinguished/ 1 so fell the son of Idomeneus, cut down like 

1 This is taken from the commentary of Servius on the JEneid (iii. 121). 

3 The last mortal effort of poor Dido was, " with swimming eyes to seek 
the light of heaven." — Virgil, jEaeid, iv. 691. Voltaire and Delille have 
Imitated this beautiful passage. 

3 " Eurvaiusis overwhelmed in death, the blood flows down his beau- 
teous limbs, and on his shoulders the drooping neck reclines: as when a 
purple flower, cut down by the plough, pines away in death." — Virgil, 
^£k,ix.433. 

" As if, in a well- watered garden, any one should break down violets, oi 



228 WORKS OF FENELON. 

a flower, by an untimely stroke, in the first bloom of bis 
youth. 

" ' The father, stupefied by excess of grief, knew neither 
where he was, nor what he had done, nor what he ought to do, 
but walked with faltering steps towards the city, and inquired 
eagerly for his child. 

" ' In the mean time the people, who were moved with com- 
passion for the youth, and with horror at the cruelty of the 
father, cried out, that the justice of the gods had given him 
up to the Furies. Rage supplied them with weapons ; one 
snatched a stick, another a stone, 1 and discord infused rancor 
and malignity into every bosom. The Cretans, however wise, 
were at this time exasperated to folly, and renounced their alle- 
giance to their king. His friends, therefore, as they could not 
otherwise preserve him from popular fury, conducted him back 
to the fleet, where they went on board with him, and once 
more committed themselves to the mercy of the waves. Ido- 
meneus, as soon as he recovered from his phrensy, thanked them 
for having forced him from a country which he had stained 
with the blood of his son ; and which, therefore, he could not 
bear to inhabit. The winds wafted them to the coast of Hes- 
peria; and they are now forming a new State in the country of 
the Salcntines. 2 

" ' The Cretans, having thus lost their king, have resolved to 
elect such a person in his stead as shall administer the estab- 

poppies, iind lilies, as they adhere to their yellow stalks; drooping, they 
would suddenly hang down their languid heads, and could not support 
themselves ; and would look towards the ground with their tops : so sink 
his [Hyacinth us'] dying features; and, forsaken by its vigor, the neck is a 
burden to itself, and reclines upon the shoulder."— Ovid,. Metam., ix. 190. 
" Here on the rural couch aloft they raise the youth: like a flower, either 
of the tender violet, or of the drooping hyacinth, cropped by a virgin's 
hand, from which not the gay bloom, or its own fair form, hath yet de- 
parted."— Virgil, j£n., xi. 70. 

1 " And as when a sedition has perchance arisen among a mighty multi- 
tude, and the minds of the ignoble vulgar rage; now lireoianis, now 
stones fly ; fury supplies them with arms." — Virgil, jEn., i. 150 

2 Fenelon follows Virgil (sEii., iii. 121 and 400). The city of Salentum 
was in the south of Italy. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 229 

lished laws in their utmost purity. For this purpose, the prin- 
cipal inhabitants of every city have been summoned hither. 
The sacrifices, which are the first solemnities of the election, 
are already begun ; the most celebrated sages of all the neigh- 
boring countries are assembled to propose questions to the can- 
didates, as a trial of their sagacity. Preparations are made for 
public games, to determine their courage, strength, and activity. 
The Cretans are resolved, that, as their kingdom is the prize, 
they will bestow it upon him only who shall be adjudged 
superior to all others both in body and in mind. To render the 
victory more difficult, by increasing the number of competi- 
tors, all foreigners are invited to the contest.' 

" Nausicrates, after having related these astonishing events, 
pressed us to enter the lists. ' Make haste,' said he, ' O 
strangers, to our assembly, and engage, among others, in the 
contest ; for if the gods decree the victory to either of you, he 
shall be the sovereign of Crete !' He then turned hastily from 
us ; and we followed him, not with any desire of victory, but 
only that we might gratify our curiosity, by being present at 
ao uncommon and important a transaction. 

" We came to a kind of circus of vast extent, in the middle 
of a thick forest ; within the circus' was an area prepared for 
the combatants, surrounded by a circular bank of fresh turf, 
on which were seated an innumerable multitude of spectators. 
We were received with the utmost civility ; for the Cretans ex-, 
eel all other people in a liberal and religious performance of the 
duties of hospitality. They not only caused us to be seated, 
but iuvited us to engage in the exercises. Mentor declined it on 
account of his age; and Hazael, on account of his feeble health. 

** My youth and vigor left me no excuse ; however, I glanced 
my eye upon Mentor, to discover his sentiments ; and I per- 
ceived that he wished I should engage. I therefore accepted 
the offer that had been made me, and, throwing off my apparel, 



1 " ^Eneas advances to a grassy plain, which woods on winding hills in- 
closed around ; and in the mid valley was the circuit of a theatre." — Vir- 
gil, JS/i.j v. 185. 



230 WORKS OF FKNELON. 

my limbs were anointed with oil, 1 and I placed myself among 
the other combatants. A rumor immediately passed through 
the whole multitude that the new candidate for the kingdom 
was the son of Ulysses ; for several of the Cretans, who had 
been at Ithaca when I was a child, remembered my face. 

" The first exercise was wrestling. A Rhodian, who appeared 
to be about thirty-five years of age, threw all that ventured to 
encounter him. He was still in his full vigor ; his arms were 
nervous and brawny; his muscles were discovered at every 
motion ; he was not less supple than strong. There was now 
no competitor remaining but myself; and, as he thought no 
_onor was to be gained by overcoming so feeble an opponent, 
ne indulged the compassion which he felt for my youth, and 
would have retired ; but 1 pressed forward, and presented my- 
self before him. We immediately seized each other, and 
grappled till both were out of breath. We stood shoulder to 
shoulder and foot to foot ; every nerve was strained, our arms 
were entwined, like serpents, in each other, and each of us 
endeavored to lift his antagonist from the ground. 2 He 
attempted to throw me, sometimes by surprise, and sometimes 
by mere strength, sometimes on one side, and sometimes on 
the other. While he was thus practising all his skill and force 
upon me, I threw myself forward, by a sudden effort, with such 
violence that, the muscles of his back giving way, he fell to the 
ground and drew me upon him. All his efforts to get me 
under were ineffectual ; I held him immovable under me, till 
the multitude shouted, ' Victory to the son of Ulysses !' and 
then I assisted him to rise, and he retired in confusion. 

" The combat of the cestus was more difficult. The son of 
a wealthy citizen of Samos had acquired such reputation in 
this exercise, that the rest of the candidates yielded to him 



1 " The rest of the youth are crowned with poplar wreaths, and glitter, 
having their naked shoulders besmeared with oil." — Virgil, jEn., v. 134. 

3 " We retire a little, and then again we rush together in conflict, and we 
stand firm, determined not to yield; foot, too, is joined to foot; and L 
bending forward full with my breast, press upon his fingers with my fin- 
gers, and his forehead with my forehead." — Ovid, Metam., ix. 43. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 231 

without a contest ; and the hope of victory animated no bosom 
but mine. In the first onset I received such blows on the 
head and breast, that blood gushed from my mouth and 
nostrils, and a thick mist seemed to fall upon my eyes. I 
reeled ; my antagonist pressed upon me ; and I was just sink- 
ing, faint and breathless, when I heard Mentor cry out : ' 
son of Ulysses, wilt thou be vanquished !' The voice of my 
friend encouraged me to further resistance, and disdain supplied 
me with new strength. I avoided several blows, which I must 
otherwise have sunk under. My antagonist having missed a 
stroke, I seized the opportunity, when his arm was carried away 
by its own force, and his body was bent forward, to aim a blow 
at him that he could not ward off, and I raised my cestus that it 
might descend with greater force. He saw my advantage, and, 
stepping back, he writhed his body to avoid the stroke. By 
this motion the equilibrium was destroyed, and I easily threw 
him to the ground. I immediately offered him my hand, 
which he refused ; and he got up without assistance, covered 
with dust and blood ; but, though he showed the utmost shame 
at his defeat, yet he did not dare to renew the combat. 

" The chariot races immediately followed. The chariots 
were distributed by lot, and mine happened to be the worst 
of the whole number ; the wheels were the heaviest, and the 
horses the least vigorous. We started ; and the cloud of dust 
that rose behind us obscured the sky. At the beginning of the 
race, I suffered the others to get before me. A young Lace- 
demonian, whose name was Crantor, left them all behind him; 
and Polycletus, a Cretan, followed him at a short distance. 
Hippomachus, a relation of Idomeneus, who was ambitious to 
succeed him, giving reins to his horses, which were covered 
with sweat, leaned forward over their necks ; and the wheels 
whirled round with such rapidity, that, like the wings of an 
eagle floating upon the air, they seemed not to move at all. 
My horses, beginning now to exert themselves, soon left almost 
all those that had set out with so much ardor, at a great dis- 
tance behind them. Hippomachus, pressing forward to keep 
his advantage with too much eagerness, the most vigorous of 



232 WORKS OF FENELON. 

his horses fell down, and put an end to the hopes of the 
driver. 

" Polycletus, leaning too much over his horses, was thrown 
out of his chariot by a sudden shock ; the reins were forced 
out of his hand ; and, though he had now no hope of victory, 
he thought himself happy to have escaped with his life. 
Crantor, perceiving with jealousy and indignation that I was 
now close behind him, urged forward with more eagerness ; 
sometimes vowing rich offerings to the gods, and sometimes 
encouraging his horses. He was afraid I should pass him, by 
driving between his chariot and the barrier of the course, be- 
cause my horses, having been less exhausted, were able to get 
before him if they had room, though they should wheel round 
on the outside of the track. This could be prevented only by 
obstructing the passage. Though he saw the danger of the 
attempt, he drove up so close to the barrier that his wheel, 
being forced against it, was torn off and his chariot dismounted. 
I had now nothing to do but to turn short, that I might keep 
clear of him, and the next moment he saw me at the goal. 
The multitude once more shouted : ' Victory to the son of 
Ulysses ! It is he whom the gods have appointed to reign 
o/er us!' 

" We were then conducted, by the most illustrious and ven- 
erable of the Cretans, into a wood which had been long kept 
sacred from the vulgar and the profane, where we were con- 
vened by those aged men who had been appointed by Minos 
to preserve the laws from violation, and administer justice to 
the people. But into this assembly those only who had con- 
tended in the games were admitted. The sages opened the 
book in which all the laws of Minos had been collected. I 
was touched with reverence and humility when I approached 
these fathers of their country, whom age had rendered vener- 
able without impairing their vigor of mind. They sat, with 
great order and solemnity, in a fixed posture ; their hair was 
white as snow, but some of them had scarcely any left ; and 
their countenances, though grave, were brightened with a calm 
and placid sagacity. They were not forward to speak, and 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 233 

they said nothing that was not the result of mature delibera- 
tion. When their opinions were different, they supported 
them with so much candor and moderation, that it could 
scarcely be believed they were not of one mind. By long ex- 
perience and close application, they had acquired the most 
acute discernment and extensive knowledge ; but that which 
principally conduced to the strength and rectitude of their 
judgment, was the sedate, dispassionate tranquillity of minds 
long freed from the tumultuous passions and capricious levity 
of youth. Wisdom alone was their principle of action ; and, 
by the long and habitual practice of virtue, they had so cor- 
rected every irregular disposition, that they enjoyed the calm 
yet elevated delights of reason. To these venerable men I 
lifted up my eyes with admiration, and wished that, by a 
sudden contraction of my life, I might immediately arrive at 
so desirable an old age. I perceived youth to be a state of 
infelicity, subject to the blind impetuosity of passion, and far 
from the perspicacious tranquillity of their virtue. 

" The person who presided in this assembly opened the book 
of the laws of Minos. It was a large volume, usually locked 
up, with the richest perfumes, in a golden box. When it 
was taken out, all the sages kissed it with a profound respect, 
and said that, the gods only excepted, from whom all good is 
originally derived, nothing should be held so sacred as those 
laws which promote wisdom, virtue, and happiness. Those 
who put these laws in execution # for the government of others, 
should also, by these laws, govern themselves. It is the law 
that ought to reign, and not the man. Such were the senti- 
ments of these sages. The president then proposed three 
questions, which were to be resolved by the maxims of Minos. 

" The first question was : ' What man is most free V One 
answered, that it was a king who governed his people with ab- 
solute authority, and had triumphed over all his enemies. 
Another said, that it was he whose riches enabled him to pur- 
chase whatever he desired. In the opinion of some, it was a 
man who had never married, and who was perpetually travel- 
ling from one country to another, without subjecting himself 



234: WORKS OF FEN'KLON. 

to the laws of any. Others supposed it might he a savage, 
who, living wild in the woods, and subsisting himself by hunt- 
ing, was independent of all society, and suffered no want as an 
individual. Others thought of a slave immediately after his 
emancipation ; because, being just relieved from the severities 
of servitude, he would have a more lively sense of the sweets 
of freedom. And there were some who said that a man at 
the point of death was more free than all others, because 
death breaks every bond, and over the dead the united world 
has no power. 

" When my opinion was demanded, I was in no doubt what 
to answer, because I remembered what had been often told me 
by Mentor. ' The most free of all men,' said I, * is he whose 
freedom slavery itself cannot take away. He, and he only, is 
free in every country and in every condition, who fears the 
gods, and whose fear has no other object. In other words, he 
only is truly free over whom fear and desire have no power, 
and who is subject only to reason and the gods.' The fathers 
looked upon each other with a smile, and were surprised to 
find my answer exactly the same with that of Minos. 

" The second question was : ' Who is most unhappy V To 
this every one gave such an answer as was suggested by his 
fancy. One said that the most unhappy man was he who was 
without money, health, and reputation. Another said, it was 
he that had no friend. Some imagined none could be so 
wretched as those who had degenerate and ungrateful children. 
But a native of Lesbos, a man celebrated for his wisdom, said 
that the most unhappy of all men was he that thought himself 
so ; because unhappiness depends much less upon adversity 
than impatience, and unfortunate events derive all their power 
to afflict from the minds of those to whom they happen. 

" The assembly heard this opinion with a shout of applause ; 
and every one believed that, in this question, the Lesbian 
would be declared victor. But, my opinion being asked, I 
formed my answer upon the maxims of Mentor. ' The most 
unhappy of all men,' said I, * is a king who believes he shall 
become happy by rendering others miserable : his wretched- 



TKLEMACHUS. BOOK V. 235 

ness is doubled by his ignorance*; for, as he does not know 
whence it proceeds, he can apply no remedy ; he is, indeed, 
afraid to know, and he suffers a crowd of sycophants to sur- 
round him, that keep truth at a distance. He is a slave to his 
own passions, and an utter stranger to his duty ; he has never 
tasted the pleasure of doing good, nor been warmed to sensi- 
bility by the charms of virtue. He is wretched, and the 
wretchedness that he suffers he deserves ; his misery, however 
great, is perpetually increasing ; he rushes down the precipice 
of perdition, and the gulf of everlasting punishment receives 
him.' The assembly attested my victory over the Lesbian, and 
the judges declared that I had expressed the sense of Minos. 

" The third question was : ' Which of the two ought to be 
preferred, — a king who is invincible in war, or a king who, 
without any experience in war, can administer civil government 
with great wisdom in a time of peace ?' The majority deter- 
mined this question in favor of the warrior ; ' For skill to 
govern in a time of peace,' said they, ' will be of little use, if 
the king cannot defend his country in a time of war, since he 
will himself be divested of his authority, and his people will 
become slaves to the enemy.' Others preferred the pacific 
prince ; because, as he would have more to fear from a war, 
he would be more careful to avoid it. But they were answered 
that the achievements of a conqueror would not only increase 
his own glory, but the glory of his people to whom he would 
subjugate many nations; while under a pacific government, 
quiet and security would degenerate into cowardice and sloth. 
My sentiments were then asked, and I answered thus : ' Al- 
though he who can only govern either in peace or in war is 
but half a king ; yet the prince who, by his sagacity, can dis- 
cover the merit of others, and can defend his country when it 
is attacked, if not in person, yet by his generals, is, in my 
opinion, to be preferred before him who knows no art but that 
of war. A prince whose genius is entirely military, will levy 
endless wars to extend his dominions, and ruin his people to 
add a new title to his name. If the people which he now 
governs are unhappy, what is it to them how many more nations 



236 WORKS OF FENELON. 

he conquers! A foreign war, long continued, cannot fail to 
produce disorder at home : the manners of the victors them- 
selves become corrupt during the general convulsion. How 
much has Greece suffered by the conquest of Troy ! She was 
more than ten years deprived of her kings. Wherever the 
flame of war is kindled, the laws are violated with impunity, 
agriculture is neglected, and the sciences are forgotten. The 
best prince, when he has a war to sustain, is compelled to the 
same conduct that disgraces the worst, to tolerate license, 
and employ villainy in his service. How many daring profli- 
gates are punished in a time of peace, whom it is necessary to 
reward during the disorders of war! No nation was ever 
governed by a conqueror that did not suffer by his ambition. 
The victorious and the vanquished are involved almost in the 
same ruin, while the king grows giddy amid the tumult of 
triumph. As he is utterly ignorant of the arts of peace, he 
knows not how to derive any popular advantages from a suc- 
cessful war ; he is like a man that not only defends his own 
field, but forcibly takes possession of his neighbor's, yet can 
neither plough nor sow, and consequently reaps no harvest 
from either. Such a man seems born, not to diffuse happiness 
among his subjects, by a wise and equitable government, but 
to fill the world with violence, tumult, and desolation. 

" ' As to the pacific prince, it must indeed be confessed that 
he is not qualified for conquest: or, in other words, he is not 
born to harass his people by perpetual hostilities, in a restless 
attempt to subjugate others, over whom he can have no equita- 
ble right ; but if he is perfectly fitted for peaceful government, 
-he has all the qualities that will secure his subjects against the 
encroachments of an enemy. His justice, moderation, and 
quietness render him a good neighbor ; he engages in no en- 
terprise that can interrupt the peace subsisting between him 
and other States, and he fulfils all his engagements with a 
religions exactness. He is, therefore, regarded by his allies 
rather with love than fear, and they trust him with unlimited 
confidence. If any restless, haughty, and ambitious power 
should molest him, all the neighboring princes will interpose in 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 287 

his behalf; because from him they apprehend no attempt 
against their own quiet, but have every thing to fear from his 
enemy. His steady justice, impartiality, and public faith 
render him the arbiter of all the kingdoms that surround his 
own. While the enterprises of ambition make the warrior 
odious, and the common danger unites the world against him, 
j glory, superior to that of conquest, comes unlooked for to 
the friend of peace. On him the eyes of other potentates are 
turned with reverence and affection, as on the father and the 
guardian of them all. 1 

" ' Such are his advantages abroad ; and those at home are 
yet more considerable. If he is qualified to govern in peace, it 
follows that he must govern by the wisest laws. He must 
restrain parade and luxury ; he must suppress all arts which 
can only gratify vice ; and he must encourage those which 
supply the necessaries of life, especially agriculture, to which 
the principal attention of his people must be turned. What- 
ever is necessary will then become abundant. The people, 
being inured to labor, simple in their manners, habituated to 
live upon a little, and therefore easily gaining a subsistence 
from the field, will multiply without end. This kingdom, 
then, will soon become extremely populous, and the people 
will be healthful, vigorous, and hardy ; not effeminated by 
luxury, but veterans in virtue ; not slavishly attached to a life 
of voluptuous indolence, but free in a magnanimous contempt 
of death, and choosing rather to die than to lose the many 
privileges which they enjoy under a prince who reigns only 
as the substitute of Reason. If a neighboring conqueroi 
should attack such a people as this, he might probably find 
them unskilful in making a camp, in forming the order oi 
battle, and in managing the engines of destruction that are 
iiGed in a siege ; but he would find them invincible by theii 
rumbers, their courage, their patience of fatigue, their habit 
of enduring hardship, the impetuosity of their attack, and the 



1 It must be remembered that Fenelon was writing to instruct the grand- 
son of L>r.is XIV., and heir of the French throne. 



238 "WORKS OF FENELON. 

perseverance of that virtue which disappointment cannot sub- 
due. Besides, if their prince is not himself qualified to com- 
mand his forces, he may substitute such persons as he knows 
to be equal to the trust, and use them as instruments, without 
giving up his authority. Succors may be obtained from his 
allies; his subjects will rather perish than become the slaves of 
injustice and oppression : the gods themselves will fight in his 
behalf. Thus will the pacific prince be sustained, when his 
danger is most imminent. 

" * I conclude, therefore, that though his ignorance in the art 
of war is an imperfection in his character, since it incapacitates 
him to execute one of the principal duties of his station — the 
chastisement of those who invade his dominion or injure his 
people ; yet he is infinitely superior to a king who is wholly 
unacquainted with civil government, and knows no art but that 
of war.' 

" I perceived that many persons in the assembly did not 
approve the opinion that I had been laboring to maintain ; for 
the greater part of mankind, dazzled by the false lustre of vic- 
tories and triumphs, prefer the tumult and show of successful 
hostilities to the quiet simplicity of peace and the intrinsic 
advantages of good government. The judges, however, de- 
clared that I had spoken the sentiments of Minos ; and the 
president cried out : ' The oracle of Apollo, known to all 
Crete, is fulfilled. Minos inquired of the god how long his 
posterity should govern by the laws which he had established. 
The god answered : ' Thy posterity shall cease to reign when 
a stranger shall establish the reign of thy laws.' We feared 
that some foreigner would make a conquest of our island ; but 
the misfortunes of Idomeneus, and the wisdom of the son of 
Ulysses, who, of all mortals, best understands the laws of 
Minos, have disclosed the true sense of the oracle. Why, then, 
do we delay to crown him whom the gods ha 73 appointed to 
be our king V " 

" The sages immediately went out of the consecrated grove ; 
and the chief of them, taking me by the hand, declared to the 
people, who were waiting impatiently for the decision, that the 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK V. 239 

prize had been decreed to me. The words were no sooner 
uttercJ, than the dead silence of expectation was followed by 
a universal shout. Every one cried out, * Let the son of 
Ulysses, a second Minos, be our king !' and the echoes of the 
neighboring mountain repeated the acclamation. 

" I waited a few moments, and then made a sign with my 
hand that I desired to be heard. In this interval Mentor 
whispered to me : ' Wilt thou renounce thy country ? Can 
ambition obliterate the remembrance of Penelope, who longs 
for thy return as the last object of her hope ; and alienate thy 
heart from the great Ulysses, whom the gods have resolved to 
restore to Ithaca?' These words pierced my heart, and the 
fond desire of royalt}* was instantly absorbed in the love of 
my parents and my country. 

" In the mean tim3, the multitude had again become motion- 
less and silent ; and I addressed them in these terms : ' Illus- 
trious Cretans, I am not worthy of the dignity which you 
offer. The oracle, of which you have been reminded, does 
indeed express, that the sovereignty of Crete shall depart from 
the race of Minos, when a stranger shall establish the domin- 
ion of his laws ; but it does not say, that this stranger shall 
be king. I am willing to believe that I am the stranger fore- 
told by the oracle, and that I have accomplished the prediction. 
Fortune has cast me upon this island ; I have discovered the 
true sense of the laws of Minos, and I wish that my explana- 
tion of these laws may establish their dominion with the man 
whom you shall choose. As for me, I prefer my country, the 
obscure and inconsiderable island of Ithaca, to the hundred 
cities of Crete, with all their opulence and glory. Permit me, 
then, to fellow the course marked out for me by the Fates. If 
I have contended in your sports, I was not prompted by a de- 
sire to govern you ; but only to obtain your esteem and your 
pity, that you might the more readily afford me the means of 
returning to the place of my birth; for I would rather obey 
my father Ulysses, and comfort Penelope my mother, than 
govern all the nations upon earth. You see, O Cretans, the 
secret recesses of my heart, I am compelled to leave you ; 



24:0 WORKS OF FENELON. 

but death only can put an end to my gratitude. Your interest 
shall never be less dear to me than my own honor ; and I will 
remember you with affection, till I draw my last breath.' 

" I had scarcely finished the last sentence, when there arose, 
from the innumerable multitude that surrounded me, a deep 
hoarse murmur, like the sound of waves that are broken 
against each other in a storm. Some questioned whether T 
was not a god under the appearance of a man. Others af- 
firmed that they had seen me in foreign countries, and knew 
me to be Telemachus. Many cried out, that I should be com- 
pelled to ascend the throne of Idomeneus. I therefore again 
signified my intention to speak ; and they were again silent in 
a moment, not knowing but that I was now about to accept 
what before I had refused. 

" ' Permit me,' said I, ' Cretans, to tell you my thoughts 
without disguise. I believe you to be the wisest of all people ; 
and yet there is one important distinction which I tzink yon 
have not made. You ought not to select the man who is best 
acquainted with the theory of your laws ; but him who, with 
the most steady virtue, has reduced them to practice. I am, 
as yet, but a youth, and consequently without experience, and 
subject to the tyranny of impetuous passions : I am in that 
state which renders it more fit for me to learn, by obedience, 
how to command hereafter, than how to command at present. 
Do not, therefore, seek a man, who, in any exercises, either of 
the mind or of the body, has conquered others, but one who 
has achieved the conquest of himself. Seek a man who has 
the laws of Minos written upon his heart, and whose life has 
illustrated every precept by an example : let your choice be 
determined, not by what he says, but by what he has done.' 

"The venerable fathers, being much pleased with these 
sentiments, and hearing the applause cf the assembly grow 
still louder, addressed me in these terms : ' Since the gods no 
longer permit us to hope that you will reign over us, assist us, 
at least, in the choice of a king who will establish the reign 
of our laws. Is any man known to you, who, upon a throne, 
will be content with this equitable though limited authority V 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 24:1 

* I know a man,' said I, ' to whom I owe whatever merit I 
possess, whose wisdom has spoken by my lips, and whose con- 
versation suggested every sentiment which you have ap- 
proved.' 

u While I was yet speaking, the eyes of the whole assembly 
were turned upon Mentor, whom I took by the hand and pre- 
sented to them. At the same time, I related the protection 
which he had afforded to my infancy, the dangers from which 
he had delivered me, and the calamities that fell upon me 
when I rejected his counsel. 

" Mentor had, till now, stood unnoticed among the crowd ; 
for his dress was plain and negligent, his countenance was 
modest, and he spoke little, and had an air of coldness and 
reserve. But as soon as he became the object of attention, a 
dignity and firmness, not to be described, were exhibited in 
his countenance ; it was observed that his eyes were pecu- 
liarly piercing, and that every motion expressed uncommon 
vigor. Some questions were proposed : his answers excited 
universal admiration ; and the kingdom was immediately of- 
fered to him. The kingdom, however, he refused without the 
least emotion, and said that he preferred the sweets of a pri- 
vate life to the splendors of royalty; that the best princes were 
almost necessarily unhappy, because they were seldom able to 
effect the good which they designed ; and were often betrayed, 
by the circumvention of sycophants, to the perpetration of 
evils which they intended to prevent. ' If servitude,' con- 
tinued he, ' is a state of wretchedness, there can be no hap- 
piness in royalty ; for royalty is nothing more than servitude 
in disguise. A king is always dependent upon those by whom 
he must enforce bis commands. Happy are they to whom 
the toil of government is not a duty — a duty which implies the 
sacrifice of private liberty to public advantage, which our 
country only can claim, and which those alone who are in- 
vested with supreme authority can owe.' 

" The Cretans were at first struck silent with astonishment , 
but, at length, they asked Mentor what person he would advise 
them to choose. ' I would advise you,' said Mentor, ' to 
11 



242 WORKS OF FENELON. 

choose a man who knows well the people he is to govern, 
and who is also sufficiently acquainted with government to fear 
it as a state of difficulty and danger. He that desires royalty 
and does not know the duties which royalty requires (and by 
him who does not know them they can never be fulfilled) — 
such a man desires regal authority only to gratify himself. 
But regal authority should be intrusted with him only who 
would not accept it but for the love of others.' 

" The whole assembly, wondering to see two strangers re- 
fuse a kingdom which so many others had sought, began to 
inquire with whom they had come to Crete. Nausicrates, who 
had conducted us from the port to the circus, immediately 
pointed to Hazael, with whom Mentor and myself had sailed 
from the island of Cyprus. But their wonder became still 
greater, when they understood that he, who had just refused 
to be the sovereign of Crete, had been lately the slave of Ha- 
zael ; that Hazael, struck with the wisdom and virtue of his 
slave, now considered him as his monitor and his friend, and 
had been urged, merely by his desire of knowledge, to travel 
from Damascus in Syria to Crete, that he might acquaint him- 
self with the laws of Minos. 

" The sages then addressed themselves to Hazael. ' We do 
not dare,' said they, ' to offer Hazael the crown which has been 
refused by Mentor, because we believe the sentiments of both 
to be the same. You despise mankind too much to rule them ; • 
nor is there any thing in wealth or in power that would com- 
pensate you for the toils of government.' Hazael replied : 
4 Think not, Cretans, that 1 despise mankind, or that I am 
insensible to the glory that rewards the labor by which they 
are rendered virtuous and happy. This labor, however glori- 
ous, is attended with pain and danger ; and the external glitter 
of regal pomp captivates only the foolish and the vain. ( Life 
is short, and greatness rather incites than gratifies desire : it 
is one of those deceitful acquisitions which I have come so far 
not to obtain, but to learn how to despise.) Farewell ! I have 
no wish but to return once more to retirement and tranquillity, 
where my soul may feast on kno wledge with divine reflection. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 243 

and where that hope of immortality which is derived from vir- 
tue may afford me comfort under the infirmities of old age. 
If I have a wish besides this, it is never to be separated from 
the two men who now stand before you.' 

" The Cretans then cried out to Mentor : 'Tell us, wisest 
and greatest of mortals, tell us who shall be our king ! We 
will not suffer thee to depart till thou hast directed this im- 
portant choice.' Mentor immediately answered : * As I stood 
among the crowd of spectators, whom the sports had drawn 
together, I perceived a man who, in the midst of all that tu- 
mult and impatience, appeared collected and sedate ; and still 
vigorous, though advanced in years. Upon inquiring who he 
was, I soon learned that his name was Aristodemus. I after- 
wards heard some that stood near tell him that his two sons 
were among the candidates ; but he expressed no satisfaction 
at the news. He said that he loved one of them too well to 
wish him involved in the dangers of royalty, and that he had 
too great a regard for his country to wish it should be gov- 
erned by the other. I immediately perceived that the old man 
loved one of his sons, who had virtue, with a rational affection ; 
and that he was too wise to indulge the other in vicious irreg- 
ularities. My curiosity being now greatly increased, I inquired 
more particularly into the circumstances of his life. One of 
the citizens gave me this account : ' Aristodemus,' said hej 
' bore arms in the service of his country for many years, and 
is almost covered with scars, but his abhorrence of insincerity 
and flattery rendered him disagreeable to Idomeneus, who 
therefore left him in Crete when he went to the siege of Troy : 
and, indeed, he was kept in perpetual anxiety by a man who 
gave him such counsel as he could not but approve, yet wanted 
resolution to follow; he was, besides, jealous of the glory which 
he knew Aristodemus would soon acquire. The king, there- 
" fore, forgetting the services of his soldier, left him here ex- 
posed to the distresses of poverty, and to the scorn of the 
"brutal and the sordid, who consider nothing as merit but 
riches. With poverty, however, Aristodemus was contented, 
and lived cheerfully in a remote corner of the island, where he 



244 WORKS OF FENELON. 

cultivated a few acres of ground with his own hand. In this 
employment he was assisted by one of his sons, whom he 
loved with great tenderness. Labor and frugality soon made 
them happy in the possession of whatever is necessary to a life 
of rural simplicity, and something more. The wise old man 
distributed this surplus among the decrepit and the sick. He 
stimulated the young to industry ; he exhorted the refractory, 
and instructed the ignorant ; he was the arbiter of every dis- 
pute, and the father of every family. In his own family, he 
considers no circumstance as unfortunate but the bad disposi- 
tion of his second son, upon whom all admonition has been 
lost. The father, after having long endured his irregularities, 
in hopes that some means would be found to correct them, has 
at length expelled him from his house. The son has since 
given himself up to the grossest sensuality ; and, in the folly 
of his ambition, has become a candidate for the kingdom.' 

" ' Such, Cretans, is the account that was given me of 
Aristodemus. Whether it is true or false, is best known to 
you. But, if this man is, indeed, such as he has been repre- 
sented, why have public games been appointed, and why have 
m many strangers been brought together ? You have, in the 
midst of you, a man whom you well know, and by whom you 
are well known ; a man to whom all the arts of war are 
familiar, and whose courage has sustained him, not only against 
the spear and the dart, but against the formidable assaults of 
poverty; who has despised the riches that are acquired by 
flattery ; who has preferred labor to idleness, and knows the 
advantages which are derived to the public from agriculture ; 
who is an enemy to parade and pomp; whose passions are 
under the control of reason — for even the parental affection, 
which in others is so often a blind instinct, acts in him as a 
rational and a moral principle ; since, of two sons, he cherishes 
one for his virtue, and renounces the other for his vices ; — a 
man who, in a word, is already the father of the people. In 
this man, therefore, Cretans, if, indeed, you desire to be 
governed by the laws of Minos, behold your king !' 

"The multitude immediately cried out, with one voice: 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 245 

1 Aristodemus is, indeed, such as lie has been represented ; 
Aristodemus is worthy to be our king !' The fathers of the 
council then ordered that he should be brought before them; 
and he was immediately sought among the crowd, where he 
was mixed with the lowest of the people. When he was 
brought before the assembly, he appeared calm and uncon- 
cerned. When lis was told that the people had determined to 
make him king, he answered, that he would not accept of the 
office but upon three conditions. ' First,' says he, ' the throne 
shall be declared vacant at the end of two years, if within that 
time I do not render you better than you are ; or if you shall 
resist the execution of the laws. Secondly ; I shall be still at 
liberty to live in a simple and frugal manner. Thirdly ; my 
sons shall not rank above their fellow-citizens ; and, after my 
death, shall be treated, without distinction, according to their 
merit.' 

"At these words the air was filled with acclamations of joy. 
The diadem was placed upon the head of Aristodemus by the 
chief of the hoary guardians of the law. Sacrifices were offered 
to Jupiter and the other superior deities. Aristodemus made 
us presents, not with an ostentatious magnificence, but with a 
noble simplicity. He gave to Hazael a copy of the laws of 
Minos, written by the legislator himself, and a collection of 
tracts, which contained a complete history of Crete, from the 
time of Saturn and the golden age. He sent on board his 
vessel every kind of fruit that flourishes in Crete and is un- 
known in Syria ; and offered him whatever he might need. 

" As we were now impatient to depart, be caused a vessel to 
be immediately fitted out for us ; he manned it with a great 
number of able rowers and a detachment of his best troops ; 
and he put on board several changes of apparel and a great 
plenty of provisions. As soon as the vessel was ready to sail, 
the wind became fair for Ithaca ; but, as Hazael was bound on 
a contrary course, it compelled him to continue at Crete. He 
took leave of us with great tenderness, and embraced us as 
friends, with whom he was about to part for life. ' The gods,' 
said he, 'are just; they know that the sacred bond of our 



246 WORKS OF FENELON. 

friendship is virtue ; and, therefore, they will hereafter restore 
us to each other ; and those happy fields, in which the just are 
said to enjoy everlasting rest, shall see our spirits reunited to 
part no more. Oh, that my ashes also might be mingled 
with yours !' Here his words became inarticulate, and he 
burst into tears. Our eyes overflowed with equal tenderness 
and grief. 

" Our parting with Aristodemus was scarcely less affection- 
ate. ' As you have made me a king,' said he, ' remember the 
dangers to which you have exposed me. Request the gods to 
irradiate my mind with wisdom from above, and give me power 
over myself in proportion to my authority over others. May 
they conduct you in safety to your country, abase the insolence 
of your enemies, and give you the joy of beholding Ulysses 
again upon the throne of Ithaca, supremely happy in the pos- 
session of Penelope and peace. To thee, Telemachus, I have 
given a good vessel, well manned with mariners and soldiers, 
who may assist thee against the persecutors of thy mother. 
For thee, Mentor, thy wisdom is sufficient : possessing this, 
thou hast need of nothing : all that I can give would be super- 
fluous ; all that I can wish is precluded. Go, both of you, in 
peace ; and may you long be the felicity of each other ; re- 
member Aristodemus ; and if Ithaca should need the assist- 
ance of Crete, depend upon my friendship to the last hour of 
my life.' He then embraced us ; and we could not restrain 
our tears, while thanking him. 

" The wind, which now swelled our sails, promised us a 
happy voyage. Mount Ida already appeared but like a hillock, 
the shores of Crete in a short time totally disappeared, and 
the coast of Peloponnesus seemed to advance into the sea 
to meet us. But a tempest suddenly obscured the sky, and 
roused the billows of the deep. Night 1 rushed upon us una- 
wares, and death presented himself in all his terrors. It was 
thy awful trident, Neptune, that agitated the ocean to its 



1 "Clouds enwrapped the day."— Virgil, ^En., iii. 198. "Sable Night 
sits brooding on the b*a."—Ibid., i. 89. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK V. 247 

remotest shores. 1 Venus, to revenge the contempt with which 
we had treated her, even in her temple at Cythera, hasted to 
the father of the floods, whom she addressed with a voice 
broken by grief, and her eyes swimming in tears (thus, at 
least, I have been informed by Mentor, who is acquainted with 
celestial things). ' Wilt thou suffer,' said she, ' these impious 
men to deride my power, and escape unpunished ? My power 
has been confessed by the gods themselves, and yet all that 
is done in my favorite island these presumptuous mortals have 
dared to condemn. They take pride in a frigid wisdom, never 
warmed by the rays of beauty ; and they despise, as folly, the 
delights of love. Hast thou forgotten that I was born in thy 
dominions ? Wherefore dost thou delay to overwhelm the 
wretches whom I abhor V 

" Neptune immediately swelled the waves into mountains, 
that reached the skies ; and Venus, smiling upon the storm, 
believed our shipwreck to be inevitable. Our pilot cried out, 
in confusion and despair, that he could no longer withstand 
the fury of the winds, which drove us upon the rocks 2 with 
irresistible violence ; our mast was broken by a sudden gust ; 3 
and the moment after we heard the points of the rocks that 
were under water tear open the bottom of our vessel. The 
water flowing in on every side, the vessel sunk, and the mari- 
ners sent up a cry of distress to heaven. I ran to Mentor, and, 
throwing my arms round him, said: 'Death is now indeed 
upon us ; let us meet him with intrepidity. The gods have 
delivered us from so many dangers only that we may perish 
in this. Let us die then, my dear Mentor ; it is some consola- 



1 "He [Neptune] collected the clouds, and disturbed the sea, taking his 
trident in his hand." — Homer, Odyssey, v. 291. 

2 "The raging storm is increasing, and the fierce winds wage war on 
every side, and stir up the furious main. The master of the ship is him- 
self alarmed, and himself confesses that he does not know what is their 
present condition, nor what to order or forbid." — Ovid, Metctm., xi. 490. 

3 " The sea is ragrine in a hurricane so vast, and all the sky is concealed 
beneath the shade brought on by the clouds of pitchy darkness, and the 
face of night is redoubled in gloom. The mast is broken by tin violence 
of the drenching tempest."— Ibid., 549. 



248 WORKS OF FENELON. 

tion to me that I die with you ; and it would be hopelees 
labor to dispute life with the storm.' 

" Mentor answered : '\t True courage never sits down inactive 
in despair. It is not enough to expect death with tranquillity ; 
we ought, without dreading the event, to continue our utmost 
efforts against it. Let us lay hold on some fragment of the 
vessel ; and, while this affrighted and confused multitude 
deplore the loss of life, without attempting to preserve it, let 
us try at least to preserve our own.' While he was yet speak- 
ing, he snatched up an axe and divided the splinter that still 
held the broken mast together, which, falling across the vessel, 
had laid it on one side. The top of the mast already lay in 
the water ; and Mentor, now pushing off the other end, leaped' 
upon it himself in the midst of the waves, and, calling me by 
my name, encouraged me to follow him. As a mighty oak, 
when the winds combine against it, stands firm on its root, 
and its leaves 2 only are shaken by the tempest, so Mentor, who 
was not only fearless, but serene, appeared superior to the power 
of the winds and waves. I followed him ; and the force of his 
example who could have resisted ? 

" We steered ourselves upon the floating mast, which was 
more than sufficient to sustain us both, and therefore rendered 
us a most important service ; for if we had been obliged to 
swim merely by our own effort, our strength must have been 
exhausted. The mast, however, on which we sat, was often 
overwhelmed by the tempest, notwithstanding its bulk, so that 
we were often plunged under the water, which rushed in at our 
mouths, ears, and nostrils ; and it was not without the utmost 
labor and difficulty that we recovered our seat. Sometimes a 
wave that was swelled into a mountain rolled over us, and 
then we kept our hold with all our might, lest the mast, which 



i Ulysses, in Homer (Odyss., v. 371), escapes in a similar way. 

9 "And as the Alpine north-winds by their blasts, now on this side, now 
on that, strive with joint force to overturn a sturdy ancient oak, a loud 
howline goes forth, and the leaves strew the ground in heaps, wl ile the 
trunk is shaken."— Virgil, JEn. y iv. 441, 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK V. 249 

was our only hope, should be driven from under us in the 
sh:ck. 

^ While we were in this dreadful situation, Mentor, who 
possessed the same tranquillity on the fragment of a wreck 
that he does now on that bank of turf, addressed me in these 
words : ' Canst thou believe, Telemachus, that the winds and 
waves are the arbiters of life and death ? Can they cause thee 
to perish otherwise that as they fulfil the command of heaven? 
Every event is determined by the gods ; let the gods, there- 
fore, and not the sea, be the object of thy fear. Wert thou 
already at the bottom of this abyss, the hand of Jove could 
draw thee forth ; or shouldst thou be exalted to the summit oi 
Olympus, and behold the stars rolling under thy feet, 1 the hand 
of Jove could again plunge thee into the deep, or cast thee 
headlong into hell.' I heard and admired this discourse ; but 
though it gave me some comfort, my mind was too much 
depressed and confused to reply. He saw me not, nor could I 
see him. We passed the whole night, shivering with cold, in 
a state between life and death, driving before the storm, and 
not knowing on what shore we should be cast. At length, 
however, the impetuosity of the wind began to abate ; and the 
sea resembled a person whose anger, after having been long 
indulged in tumult and outrage, is exhausted by its own vehe- 
mence, and subsides in murmurs and discontent. The noise of 
the surge gradually died away, and the waves were not higher 
than the ridges that are left by the plough. 

" And now Aurora threw open the gates of heaven to the 
sun, and cheered us with the promise of a better day. The 
east glowed as if on fire ; and the stars, which had been so 
long hidden, just appeared, and fled at the approach of Phoe- 
bus. We now descried land at a distance ; the breeze wafted 
us towards it, and hope revived in my bosom. But we looked 
round in vain for our companions, who probably resigned 



1 "Daphnis, robed in white, admires the courts of heaven, to which he 
is a stranger, and under his feet beholds the clouds and stars.'"— Virgil, 
EcL, v. 56. 

11* 



250 WOKKS OF FKNELON. 

themselves to the tempest in despair, and sunk with the vessel 
As we approached nearer to the shore, the sea drove us upon 
the rocks, against which we should have been dashed in 
pieces, but that we received the shock against the end of the 
mast, which Mentor rendered as serviceable upon this occasion 
as the best rudder could have been in the hands of the most 
skilful pilot. Thus, having passed the rocks in safety, we 
found the rest of the coast rising from the sea with a smooth 
and easy ascent ; and, floating at ease upon a gentle tide, we 
soon reached the sand with our feet. There we were discov- 
ered by thee, goddess, and by thee benignly received." 



. 



BOOK VI. 



Calypso admires Telemachus for his adventures, and exerts all her power 
to detain him in her island, by inciting him to return her passion ; but 
he is sustained by the wisdom and friendship of Mentor, as well against 
her artifices as against the power of Cupid, whom Venus sends to her 
assistance. Teleuiachus, however, and Eucharis become mutually enam- 
ored of each other, which provokes Calypso first to jealousy, and then 
to rage. She swears, by the Styx, that Telemachus shall leave her island, 
and engages MentorA> build a ship to take him back to Ithaca. She is 
consoled by Cupid,^io excites the nymphs to burn the vessel which 
had been built by Mentor, while Mentor was laboring to get Telemachus 
on board. Telemachus is touched with a secret joy at this event. Men- 
tor, who perceives it, throws him from a rock into the sea, and leaps 
after him, that they may swim to another vessel which appeared not far 
distant from the shore. 



When Telemachus had concluded the relation of his adven- 
tures, the nymphs, whose eyes had till then been immovably 
fixed upon him, looked at each other with a mixture of aston- 
ishment and delight. " What men," said they, " are these ! 
In the fortunes of whom else would the gods have taken part ; 
and of whom else could such wonders have been related ? 
Ulysses is already surpassed in eloquence, in wisdom, and in 
courage, by his son. What an aspect ! what manly beauty ! 
what a mixture of dignity and complaisance, of firmness and 
modesty ! If he was not known to be born of a mortal, he 
might easily be mistaken for a god — for Bacchus, for Mercury, 
or perhaps, even for Apollo himself I 1 But who is this Men- 
tor ? His first appearance is that of a man obscurely born, 
and of a mean condition ; but when he is examined with at- 



1 " What think you of this wondrous guest who has come to our abodes ? 
In mien how graceful 1 in manly fortitude and warlike deeds how great! 
I am fully persuaded (nor is my belief groundless) that he is the offspring 
of the gods."— Virgil, JSn. iv., 10. 



252 WORKS OF FENELON. 

tention, something inexpressible is discovered, something that 
is more than mortal !" 

Calypso heard these exclamations with a confusion she could 
not hide ; her eyes were incessantly glancing from Mentor to 
Telemachus, and from Telemachus to Mentor. She was often 
about to request a repetition of the story to which she had 
listened with so much delight, and as often suppressed her de- 
sire. At length she rose hastily from her seat, and, taking 
Telemachus with her, retired to a neighboring grove of myrtle, 
where she labored with all her art to learn from him whether 
Mentor was not a deity concealed under a human form. It 
was not, however, in the power of Telemachus to satisfy her 
curiosity ; for Minerva, who accompanied him in the likeness 
of Mentor, thought him too young to be trusted with the se- 
cret, and made the confidant of her designs. She was, besides, 
desirous to prove him in the greatest dangers ; and no forti- 
tude would have been necessary to sustain him against any 
evil, however dreadful and however near, if he had known 
himself to be under the immediate protection of Minerva. As 
Telemachus, therefore, mistook his divine companion for Men- 
tor, all the artifices of Calypso to discover what she wished to 
know were ineffectual. 

In the mean time the nymphs who had been left with Mentor 
gathered round him, and amused themselves by dsking him 
questions. One inquired the particulars of his journey into 
Ethiopia ; another desired to know what he aad seen at Da- 
mascus ; and a third asked him whether he had knjivn Ulys- 
ses before the siege of Troy. Mentor answered them all with 
complaisance and affability ; and though he used no studied 
ornaments of speech, yet his expression was not only signifi- 
cant but graceful. 

The return of Calypso soon put an end to this conversation : 
her nymphs then began to gather flowers, and to sing for the 
amusement of Telemachus ; and she took Mentor aside, that 



1 "And, fond even to madness, begs again to hear the Trojan disasters; 
and again hangs on the speaker's lips." — Virgil, u£n., iv. 78. 









TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. 253 

she might, if possible, discover who he was from his own dis- 
course. The words of Calypso were wont to steal upon the 
heart, as sleep steals upon the eyes of the weary, with a sweet 
and gentle though irresistible influence ; but in Mentor there 
was something which defeated her eloquence and eluded her 
beauty — something as much superior to the power of Calypso, 
as the rock that hides its foundation in the earth, and its sum- 
mit in the clouds, is superior to the wind that beats against it. 
He stood immovable 1 in the purposes of his own wisdom, and 
suffered the goddess to exert all her arts against him with the 
utmost indifference and security. Sometimes he would let 
her deceive herself with the hope of having embarrassed him 
by her questions, and betrayed him into the involuntary dis- 
covery of himself; but, just as she thought her curiosity was 
on the point of being gratified, her expectations were suddenly 
disappointed, all her conjectures were overthrown, and, by 
some short and unexpected answer, she was again overwhelmed 
in perplexity and doubt. 

In this manner Calypso passed one day after another ; some- 
times endeavoring to gain the heart of Telemachus by flattery, 
and sometimes laboring to alienate him from Mentor, of whom 
she no longer hoped to obtain the intelligence she desired. 
She employed her most beautiful nymphs to inflame the breast 
of the young hero with desire, and she was assisted in her 
designs against him by a deity whose power was superior to 
her own. 

Venus burned with resentment against Mentor and Telema- 
chus, for having treated the worship which she received at 
Cyprus with disdain ; and their escape from the tempest, which 
had been raised against them by Neptune, filled her breast 
with indignation and grief. She therefore complained of her 
disappointment and her wrongs to Jupiter, and from his supe- 



1 "He [stands firm] firm as a rock that projects into the vast, o^ean, ob- 
noxious to the fury of the winds, and exposed to the main, and endures 
all the violence and threatenings of the sky and sea, itself remaining un- 
moved."— Virgil, jEn. y x. C93. 



254: WORKS OF FENELON. 

rior power she hoped more effectual redress. But the father 
of the gods only smiled at her complaint ; and, without ac- 
quainting her that Telemachus had been preserved by Minerva 
in the likeness of Mentor, he left her at liberty to gratify her 
resentment as she could. 

The goddess immediately quitted Olympus ; and thoughtless 
of all the rich perfumes that were rising from her altars at 
Ci thera, Idalia, and Paphos, mounted her chariot, and called 
her son. The grief which was diffused over her countenance 
rather increased than diminished her beauty, and she addressed 
the god of love in these terms : 

" Who, my son, shall henceforth burn incense upon our 
altars, 1 if those who despise our power escape unpunished ? 
The wretches who have thus offended with impunity are before 
thee ; make haste, therefore, to secure our honor, and let thy 
arrows pierce them to the heart : go down with me to that 
island, and I will speak to Calypso." The goddess shook the 
reins as she spoke ; and, gliding through the air, surrounded 
by a cloud which the sun had tinged with a golden hue, she 
presented herself before Calypso, who was sitting pensive and 
alone by the side of a fountain, at some distance from her 
grotto. 

"Unhappy goddess!" said she, "thou hast already been 
despised and deserted by Ulysses, whom the ties, not only of 
love, but of gratitude should have bound to thee ; and the son, 
yet more obdurate than the father, is now preparing to repeat 
the insult. But love comes in person to avenge thee ; I will 
leave him with thee ; and he shall remain among the nymphs 
of this island as Bacchus did once among those of the island 
of Naxos, 2 who cherished him in his infancy. Telemachus will 
regard him, not as a deity, but as a child ; and, not being on 
his guard against him, will be too sensible of his power." The 



1 " And who will henceforth adore Juno's divinity, or humbly offer sac- 
rifices on her altars ?" — JEn., i. 48. 

2 One of the Cyclades, in the Mgean sea, and especially celebrated foi 

its wine. , 



' 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. 255 

Queen of Beauty, then turning from Calypso, reascended to 
Olympus in the golden' cloud from which she had alighted 
upon the earth, and left behind her a train of celestial fra- 
grance, 1 which, expanding by degrees, filled all the groves of 
Calypso with perfumes. 

Cupid remained in the arms of Calypso. Though she was 
herself a deity, yet she felt his fires diffused in her breast. It 
happened that a nymph, whose name was Eucharis, was now 
near her, and Calypso put the bey into her arms. This was 
a present relief; but, alas ! it was purchased too dear. The 
boy seemed at first to be harmless, gentle, lovely, and engaging. 
His playful caresses and perpetual smiles might well have 
persuaded all about him that he was born only to delight ; but 
the moment the heart is open to his endearments, it feels that 
they have a malignant power. He is, beyond conception, 
deceitful and malicious; his caresses have no view but to 
betray ; and his smiles have no cause, but the mischiefs that he 
has perpetrated, or that he meditates. 

But, with all his power and all his subtlety, he did not dare 
to approach Mentor. In Mentor there was a severity of virtue 
that intimidated and kept him at a distance ; he knew also, by 
a secret sensation, that this inscrutable stranger could not be 
wounded by his arrows. The nymphs, indeed, were soon sen- 
sible of his power ; but the wound which they could not cure, 
they were very careful to conceal. 

In the mean time, Telemachus, who saw the boy playing 
sometimes with one of these nymphs and sometimes with an- 
other, was surprised at his sweetness and beauty. He some- 
times pressed him to his bosom, sometimes set him on his 
knee, and frequently took him in his arms. It was not long 
before he became sensible of a certain disquietude, of which he 
could not discover the cause ; 2 and the more he endeavored to 

1 " She spoke, and shed around the liquid odor of amhrosia." — Virgil, 
Georgics, iv. 415. 

2 " She clings to him with her eyes, with her whole soul, and sometimes 
fondles him in her lap, Dido not thinking what a powerful god is settling 
on her, hapless one." — JEn., i. 717. 



256 WORKS OF FENELON. 

remove it by innocent amusements, the more restless and ener- 
vated he grew. " The nymphs of Calypso," said he to Mentor, 
" are very different from the women of Cyprus, whose indecent 
behavior rendered them disgusting in spite of their charms. 
In these immortal beauties there is an innocence, a modesty, 
a simplicity, which it is impossible not to admire and love." 
The youth blushed as he spoke, though he knew not why. 
He could neither forbear speaking, nor go on with his dis- 
course, 1 which was interrupted and incoherent, always obscure, 
and sometimes quite unintelligible. 

" Telemachus," said Mentor to him, " the dangers to 
which you were exposed in the isle of Cyprus were nothing in 
comparison with those which you do not now suspect. (Vice, 
when it is undisguised, never fails to excite horror; we are 
indignant at the wanton who has thrown off all restraint ; but 
our danger is much greater when the appearance of modesty 
remains ; we then persuade ourselves that virtue only has 
excited our love, and give ourselves up to a deceitful passion, 
of which beauty is indeed the object, and which we seldom 
learn to distrust till it is too strong to be subdued. Fly, there- 
fore, dear Telemachus, from these fatal beauties, who appear to 
be virtuous, only that they may deceive the confidence they 
raised fly from the dangers to which you are here exposed by 
your youth ; but, above all, fly from this boy, whom you do 
not dread only because you do not know him. This boy is 
Cupid, whom his mother has brought into this island to punish 
us for treating her worship at Cyprus with contempt ; he has 
already pierced the heart of Calypso, who is enamored of you ; 
he has inflamed all the beauties of her train ; and his fires have 
reached even thy breast, unhappy youth, although thou 
knowest it not !" 

Telemachus often interrupted Mentor during this admoni- 
tion. " Why," said he, " should we not continue in this island ? 
Ulysses is no longer a sojourner upon the earth ; he has, w itli- 



1 " She begins to speak, and stops short in the middle of a word."— uEn, 
iv. 76. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. 257 

out doubt, been long buried in the deep : Penelope, after 
waiting in vain, not only for his return, but for mine, must 
have yielded to the importunities of some fortunate suitor 
among the number that surrounds her, especially as it can 
scarcely be supposed but that her father Icarus must have 
exerted his paternal authority to oblige her to accept another 
husband. For what, then, can I return to Ithaca, but to see 
her disgraced by a new alliance, and be witness to the viola- 
tion of that truth which she plighted to my father? And if 
Penelope has thus forgotten Ulysses, it cannot be thought that 
he is remembered by the people. Neither, indeed, can we 
hope to get alive into the island ; for her suitors will certainly 
have placed, at every port, a band of ruffians, to cut us off at 
our return." 

" All that you have said," replied Mentor, " is only another 
proof that you are under the influence of a foolish and fatal 
passion. You labor with great subtlety to find every argument 
that can favor it, and to avoid all those by which it would be 
condemned. You are ingenious only to deceive yourself, and 
to secure forbidden pleasures from the intrusion of remorse. 
Have you forgotten that the gods themselves have inter- 
posed to favor your return ? Was not your escape from Sicily 
supernatural ? Were not the misfortunes that you suffered in 
Egypt converted into sudden and unexpected prosperity ? and 
were not the dangers which threatened you at Tyre averted 
by an invisible hand ? Is it possible that, after so many mira- 
cles, you should still doubt to what end you have been pre- 
served? But why do I remonstrate? Of the good fortune 
that was designed for thee, thou art-unworthy. As for myself, 
I make no doubt but I shall find means to quit this island ; 
and if here thou art determined to stay, here am I determined 
to leave thee. In this place let the degenerate son of the great 
Ulysses hide himself among women, in the shameful obscurity 
of voluptuousness and sloth ; and stoop, even in spite of heaven, 
to that which his father disdained." 

This reproach, so forcible and so keen, pierced Telemachus 
to the heart. He was melted with tenderness and grief ; but 



258 WORKS OF FENELON. 

his grief was mingled with shame, and his shame with fear. 
He dreaded the resentment of Mentor, and the loss of that 
companion to whose sagacity and kindness he was so much 
indebted. But, at the same time, the passion which had just 
taken possession of his breast, and to which he was himself a 
stranger, made him still tenacious of his purpose. " What !" 
said he to Mentor, with tears in his eyes, " do you reckon as 
nothing that immortality which I may now share with Calyp- 
so V " I hold as nothing," replied Mentor, " all that is con- 
trary to the dictates of virtue and to the commands of heaven. 
Virtue now calls you back to your country, to Ulysses, and to 
Penelope. Virtue forbids you to give up your heart to an un- 
worthy passion. The gods, who have delivered you from so 
many dangers, that your name might not be less illustrious 
than that of Ulysses, command you to quit this island. Only 
the tyranny of love can detain you here. Immortality ! alas, 
what is immortality without liberty, without virtue, and with- 
out honor ? Is it not a state of misery without hope — still 
more deplorable, as it can never end ?" 

To this expostulation Telemachus replied only by sighs. 
Sometimes he almost wished that Mentor would force him 
from the island in spite of himself; sometimes he was impa- 
tient to be left behind, that he might be at liberty to gratify his 
wishes without fearing to be reproached for his weakness. A 
thousand different wishes and desires maintained a perpetual • 
conflict in his breast, and were predominant by turns. His 
mind, therefore, was like the sea when agitated by contending 
winds. Sometimes he threw himself on the ground near the 
sea, and remained a long time extended motionless on the 
beach ; sometimes he hid himself in the gloomy recesses of a 
wood, where he wept in secret, and uttered loud and passionate 
complaints. His body had become emaciated ; his eyes had 
grown hollow and eager; he was pale and dejected, and in 
every respect so much altered as scarcely to be known. His 
beauty, his sprightliness, and his vigor had forsaken him. All 
the grace and dignity of his deportment were lost, and life itself 
suffered by a swift but silent decay. As a flower that blooms 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. %0V 

in the morning, fills the air with fragrance, and then gradu- 
ally fades at the approach of night, loses the vivid brightness of 
its colors, droops, withers, and at length falls with its own weight, 
so the son of Ulysses was sinking insensibly into the grave. 

Mentor, perceiving that Telemachus could not resist the vio- 
lence of his passion, had recourse to an artifice, which he 
hoped might preserve him from its most pernicious effects. He 
had remarked that Calypso was enamored of Telemachus, and 
Telemachus of Eucharis; for, as Cupid is always busy to give 
pain under the appearance of pleasure, it seldom happens that 
we are loved by those whom we love. He therefore resolved 
to make Calypso jealous. It having been agreed between 
Eucharis and Telemachus that they should go out together a 
hunting, Mentor took that opportunity to alarm her. " I have 
observed," said he, " that Telemachus has of late been more 
fond of the chase than I ever knew before ; he seems now to 
take pleasure in nothing else, and is in love only with moun- 
tains and forests. Is the chase also thy favorite pleasure, 
goddess ? and has he caught this ardor from thee ?" 

Calypso was so stung by this question, that she could neither 
dissemble her emotion nor hide the cause. " This Telema- 
chus," said she, " whose heroic virtues despised the pleasures 
that were offered him in the isle of Cyprus, has not been able 
to withstand the charms of one of my nymphs, who is not 
remarkable for beauty. How did he dare to boast of having 
achieved so many wonders ? — he, whom luxury has rendered 
sordid and effeminate, and who seems to have been intended by 
nature only for a life of indolence and obscurity among 
women !" Mentor observed with pleasure that Calypso suf- 
fered great anguish from her jealousy, and therefore said 
nothing more to inflame it at that time, lest she should suspect 
his design ; but he assumed a look that expressed dejection and 
concern. The goddess manifested, without reserve, her uneasi- 
ness at all she saw, and incessantly entertained him with new 
complaints. The hunting-match, to which Mentor had called 
her attention, exasperated her beyond all bounds. She knew 
that Telemachus had nothing in view but to draw Eucharis 



260 WORKS OF FENELON. 

from the rest of the nymphs, that he might speak to her in 
private. A second hunting-match was proposed soon after- 
wards, and Calypso knew that it was intended for the same 
purpose as the first. In order to disconcert the plans of Te- 
lemachus, she declared she would be of the party. But, her 
emotion being too violent to be concealed, she suddenly broke 
out into this reproachful expostulation : 

" Is it thus, then, presumptuous boy, that thou hast made 
my dominions an asylum from the resentment of Neptune and 
the righteous vengeance of the gods ? Hast thou entered this 
island, which mortals are forbidden to approach, only to defy 
my power and despise my love ? Hear me, ye gods of the 
celestial and infernal world, let the sufferings of an injured 
deity awaken your vengeance ! Overtake this perfidious, this 
ungrateful, this impious mortal, with swift destruction ! Since 
thy obduracy and injustice are greater than thy father's, may 
thy sufferings also be longer and more severe ! May thy coun- 
try be forever hidden from thy eyes, — that wretched, that des- 
picable country, which, in the folly of thy presumption, thou 
hast, without a blush, preferred to immortality with me ! or 
rather, mayst thou perish, when in the distant horizon it first 
rises before thee ! mayst thou then, plunged in the deep, be 
driven back, the sport of the waves, and cast lifeless upon these 
sands, which shall deny thee burial ! May my eyes see the 
vultures devour thee ! — they shall see them, and she whom 
thou lovest shall see them also ; she shall see them with de- 
spair and anguish, and her misery shall be my delight !" 

While Calypso was thus speaking, her whole countenance 
was suffused with rage : there was a gloomy fierceness in her 
looks, which continually hurried from one object to another. 
Her lips trembled, a livid circle surrounded them ; and her color, 
which was sometimes pale as death, changed every moment. 
Her tears, which she had been used to shed in great plenty, 
now ceased to flow, as if despair and rage had dried up their 
source ;' and her voice was hoarse, tremulous, and interrupted. 

* M Then neither is my mind firm, nor does my color maintain a cer- 



TELEMACHTJ6. BOOK VI. 261 

Mentor remarked all the changes of her emotions, but said 
nothing more to Telemachus. He treated him as a man in- 
fected with an incurable disease, to whom it was in vain tc 
administer remedies ; but he frequently regarded him with a 
look that strongly expressed his compassion. 

Telemachus was sensible of his weakness, and conscious that 
he was unworthy of the friendship of Mentor. He kept his 
eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring to look up, lest he 
should meet those of his monitor, by whose very silence he 
was condemned. He was often ready to throw himself upon 
his neck, and at once confess and renounce his folly ; but he 
was sometimes restrained by a false shame, and sometimes by 
a consciousness that his profession would not.be sincere, and 
by a secret fondness for a situation which, though he knew it 
to be dangerous, was yet so pleasing, that he could not resolve 
to quit it. 

In the mean time the deities of Olympus kept their eyes 
fixed, in silent suspense, upon the island of Calypso, to see the 
issue of this contest between Venus and Minerva. Cupid, who 
like a playful child had been caressed by all the nymphs in 
their turns, had set every breast on fire. Minerva, under the 
form of Mentor, had availed herself of that jealousy which is 
inseparable from love, to preclude its effects ; and Jupiter re- 
solved to sit neuter between them. 

Eucharis, who feared that Telemachus might escape from 
her chains, practised a thousand arts to detain him. She was 
now ready to go oat with him to the second chase, as had 
been agreed upon between them, and had dressed herself like 
Diana. The deities of love and beauty had, by a mutual ef- 
fort, improved her charms, which were now superior even to 
those of Calypso. Calypso beheld her at a distance ; and, see- 
ing her own reflection also in a fountain near which she stood, 
the comparison filled her with grief and shame. She hid her- 



tain situation : and the involuntary tears glide down my cheek, prov- 
ing with what lingering flames 1 am inwardly consumed." — Horace, I., 
Od. xiii. 



262 WORKS OF FENELON. 

self in the innermost recess of her grotto, and gave herself up 
to these reflections : 

" I have then vainly endeavored to interrupt the pleasure of 
these lovers, by declaring that I will go with them to the chase. 
Shall I still go \ Alas ! shall I be a foil to her beauties ? shall 
I increase her triumph and his passion ? Wretch that I am ! 
what have I done ? I will not go, nor shall they : I know 
well how to prevent them. If I entreat Mentor to quit the 
island with his friend, he will immediately conduct him to 
Ithaca. But what do I say? When Telemachus is gone, 
what will become of Calypso \ Where am I ? what shall I do ? 

cruel Venus ! Venus, thou hast deceived me ! thou hast 
betrayed me with a fatal gift ! Pernicious boy ! I opened my 
heart to thee, seduced by the pleasing hope that thou wouldst 
introduce felicity ; but thou hast perfidiously filled it with 
anguish and despair. My nymphs have combined against me, 
and my divinity* serves only to perpetuate my sufferings. Oh 
that I could put an end to my being and my sufferings to- 
gether ! But I cannot die, and therefore, Telemachus, thou 
shalt not live. I will revenge myself of thy ingratitude ; thy 
nymph shall be the witness of thy punishment : in her pres- 
ence will I strike thee to the heart. But I rave. unhappy 
Calypso, what wouldst thou do ? Wouldst thou destroy the 
guiltless youth whom thou hast already made wretched ? It is 

1 that have kindled, in the chaste bosom of Telemachus, a 
guilty flame. How pure was his innocence, and hov uniform 
his virtue ! how noble his detestation of vice, how heroic his 
disdain of inglorious pleasure ! Why did 1 taint so immacu- 
late a breast ? He would have left me, alas ! And must he 
not leave me now ? or, since he lives but for my rival, if he 
stays, must he not stay only to despise me ? But I have mer- 
ited the misery that I suffer. Go then, Telemachus ; again let 
the seas divide us : go, and leave Calypso without consolation, 
unable to sustain the burden of life, — unable to lay it down in 
the grave. Leave me, without consolation, overwhelmed with 
shame, and despoiled of hope, the victim of remoise, and the 
scorn of Eucharis." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. 263 

Thus she spoke alone in the obscurity of her grotto ; but, 
the next moment, starting suddenly from her seat, she ran out 
with a furious impetuosity, and cried out : " Where art thou, 
Mentor ? Is it thus that thy wisdom sustains Telemachus 
against the mischief that is even now ready to overwhelm 
him ? Thou sleepest while love is vigilant against thee. I can 
bear this slothful indifference no longer. Wilt thou always 
see the son of Ulysses dishonor his birth, and forego the 
advantages of his fortune, with this negligent tranquillity? 
It is to thy care, and net mine, that his friends have committed 
him ; wilt thou, then, sit idle while I am busy for his preserva- 
tion ? The remotest part of this forest abounds in tall poplars, 
of which a commodious vessel may easily be built ; in that 
place Ulysses himself built the vessel in which he set sail from 
this island. In that place you will find a deep cave, which 
contains all the implements that are necessary for the work." 

She had no sooner given Mentor this intelligence than she 
repented of it ; but he lost not a moment to improve it. He 
hastened immediately to the cave, found the implements, felled 
the trees, and in one day constructed a vessel fit for the sea ; 
for, to Minerva, a short time was sufficient for a great work. 

Calypso, in the mean time, suffered the most tormenting 
anxiety and suspense. She was impatient to know what 
Mentor would do in consequence of her information, and 
unable to bear the thought of leaving Telemachus and Eucharis 
at full liberty, by quitting the chase. Her jealousy would not 
permit her to lose sight of the lovers, and therefore she con- 
trived to lead the hunters towards that part of the forest where 
she supposed Mentor would be at work. She soon thought 
she heard the strokes of the axe and the mallet ; she listened, 
and every blow that she heard made her tremble ; yet she was 
distracted in the very moment of attention by her fears, that 
some amorous intimation, some sigh or some glance, between 
Telemachus and Eucharis, might escape her notice. 

Eucharis, at the same time, thought fit to rally her lover. 
" Are you not afraid," said she, " that Mentor will chide you 
for going to the chase without him ? What a pity it is that 



264 WORKS OF FENELON. 

you have so severe a master ! He has an austerity that 
nothing can soften ; he affects to despise pleasure himself, and 
therefore interdicts it to you, not excepting the most innocent 
amusements. It might, indeed, be proper for you to submit to 
his direction before you were able to govern yourself; but after 
you have given such proofs of wisdom, you ought no longer to 
suffer yourself to be treated like a child." 

This subtle reproach stung Telemachus to the heart : he felt 
a secret indignation against Mentor, and an impatient desire to 
throw off his yoke, yet he was still afraid to see him ; and his 
mind was in such agitation that he made the nymph no reply. 
The hunt, during which all parties had felt equal constraint 
and uneasiness, being now over, they returned home by that 
part of the forest where Mentor had been all day at work. 
Calypso saw the vessel finished at a distance : a thick cloud, 
like the shades of death, fell instantly upon her eyes. Her 
knees trembled, she was covered with a cold sweat, 1 and 
obliged to support herself by leaning on the nymphs that sur- 
rounded her; among whom Eucharis pressing to assist her, 
she pushed her back with a frown of indignation and disdain. 

Telemachus, who saw the vessel, but not Mentor, who had 
ri'iished his work, and had retired, asked Calypso to whom it 
belonged, and for what purpose it was intended ? She could not 
answer him immediately ; but at length she told him it was to 
send away Mentor, whom she had directed to build it for that 
purpose. " You," said she, " shall be no longer distressed by 
the austerity of that severe censor, who opposes your happi- 
ness, and would become jealous of your immortality." 

" To send away Mentor !" said Telemachus. " If he forsakes 
me I am undone ; if he forsakes me, whom shall I have left, 
Eucharis, but thee ?" Thus, in the unguarded moment of sur- 
prise and love, the secret escaped him in words, which his 
heart prompted, and of which he did not consider the import. 
He discovered his indiscretion the moment it was too late ; the 
whole company was struck dumb with confusion; Eucharis 

1 "Then a cold sweat flowed over my whole body." — 2En n iii. 175. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. 265 

blushed, and, fixing her eyes upon the ground, stood behind 
the crowd, not daring to appear. But, though shame glowed 
upon her cheek, joy revelled at her heart. Telemachus so far 
lost his recollection that he scarcely knew what he had done : 
the whole appeared to him like a dream, but it was like a 
dream of confusion and trouble. 

Calypso instantly quitted the place ; and, transported with 
rage, made her way through the forest with a hasty and dis- 
ordered pace, following ho track, and not knowing whither she 
was going. At length, however, she found herself at the en- 
trance of her grotto, where Mentor was waiting her return. 
"Begone," said she, "from this island, stranger, who art 
come hither only to interrupt my peace ! Begone, thou hoary 
dotard, with that infatuated boy, and be assured that, if he 
is found another hour within my dominions, thou shalt know 
the power of a deity to punish. I will see him no more, nor 
will I suffer my nymphs to have any further intercourse with 
him. This I swear by the waters of the Styx, an oath at 
which the inhabitants of eternity tremble. 1 But thou, Telem- 
achus, shalt know that thy sufferings are yet but begun. I 
dismiss thee from this island, but it is only to new misfortunes ; 
I will be revenged, and thou shalt regret the abuse of my 
bounty in vain. Neptune still resents the injury which he 
received from thy father in Sicily,' 2 and solicited by Venus, 
whose worship thou hast since despised in the isle of Cyprus, 
he is now preparing to excite new tempests against thee. Thou 
shalt see thy father, who is not dead ; but, when thou seest 
him, thou shalt not know him. Thou shalt meet him in 
Ithaca, but thou shalt first suffer the severest persecutions of 
fortune. Begone ! I conjure the celestial deities to revenge me ! 
Mayst thou be suspended in the middle of the deep, by the 
crag of some solitary and naked rock : there may the thunder 

1 " And the Stygian Lake, by whose divinity the gods dread to swear 
and violate their oath."— Virgil, ^£K, vi. 323. 

2 In Sicily, Ulysses deprived Polyphemus of sight, and Polyphemus was 
the son of Neptune. The sea-god consequently persecuted Ulysses to re- 
venge the Cyclop, his offspring. — Odyssey, i. 68. 

12 



266 WORKS OF FENELON. 

strike thee from above ; and there mayst thou invoke Calypso, 
who shall scorn thy repentance and enjoy 1 thy punishment." 

But the rage of Calypso evaporated with the very breath 
that expressed it, and the desire of retaining Teleinachus re- 
vived in her bosom. " Let him live," said she to herself, "and 
let him live here ; perhaps in time he will learn to set a just 
value upon my friendship, and reflect that Eucharis has no 
immortality to bestow-. But, alas ! I have ensnared myself by 
an inviolable oath ; it has bound me with everlasting bonds, 
and the waters of the Styx, by which I have sworn, preclude 
forever the return of hope." While these thoughts passed 
silently in her bosom, all the furies were painted upon her 
countenance, and all the pestib-itial vapors of Cocytus seemed 
to exhale from her heart. 

Her whole appearance struck Telemachus with horror. She 
instantly perceived it, — for what is hidden 2 from the perspicacity 
of love? — and the discovery added new violence to her phrensy. 
She suddenly started away from the place where she stood, with 
all the fury that inspires the votaries of Bacchus* when their 
shouts echo from the mountains of Thrace ; she rushed 
into the woods with a javelin in her hand, calling all her 
aymphs to follow her, and threatening to pierce those who 
should stay behind. Terrified at this menace they thronged 
round her, and Eucharis among the rest, her eyes swimming 
in tears, and her last look directed to Telemachus, to whom 
she did not dare to speak. The gxlde^. trembled when she 
approached her, and was so far from being softened by her 
submission, that she burned with new rage when she per- 
ceived that affliction itself only heightened her beauty. 4 



1 "I hope, however, . . . thou mayst suffer punishment amid the rocks, 
and often call on Dido's name." — jEn.., iv. 381. 

3 " Who can deceive a lover?" — j£n., iv. 296. 

' " Like a Bacchanal wrought up to enthusiastic fury," etc. — ^Hn., iv. 301. 

* "Ft'nelon," Bays Delille, " has, like Virgil, painted a chiso ; but he 
has added many happily conceived touches. He alone has given to his 
poetic prose linages enough and sufficient harmony to make us forget the 
absence of verse, which all other poets have considered necessary for epic 
action." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. 267 

Telemachus was now left alone with Mentor. After a short 
interval of silence and confusion, he threw himself on the 
ground, and cm'c raced his knees : he did not dare to throw him- 
self on his neck, or even to lift up his eyes upon him. lie burst 
into tears : he attempted to speak, but his voice failed him, 
and he was yet more at a loss for words : he knew not what 
he ought to do, what he did, or what he would do ; but at 
length he cried out : " more than father ! Mentor ! deliver 
me from the evil: that surround me. I can neither forsake nor 
follow you : deliver me from evils that are worse than death ; 
deliver me from myself; put an end to my being !" 

Mentor embraced him, comforted and encouraged him ; and, 
without soothing his passion, reconciled him to life. " son 
of the wise Ulysses," said he, " whom the gods have so highly 
favored, and whom they favor still, the very sufferings of which 
. thou art now complaining are new testimonies of their love. 
\ He who has never felt the strength of his passions, and his own 
> weakness, is not yet acquainted with wisdom ; he is not yet 
acquainted with himself; nor is he aware how little his own -. 
heart is to be trustecL) The gods have led thee, as it were, I 
by the hand, to the brink of destruction ; they have showed \ 
thee the depth of the abyss, but they have not suffered thee I 
to fall in. Secure now the knowledge which otherwise thou 
couldst never have acquired. Improve that experience, with- 
out which it w 7 ould have been in vain to tell thee of the 
treachery of Love, who flatters only to destroy, and who con- f 
ceals the keenest anguish under the appearance of delight. 
Thou hast now seen and known this lovely, this perfidious boy. / 
He came hither blooming in immortal beauty, and all was 
mirth and sport, elegance and dissipation. He stole away thy / 
heart, and thou hadst pleasure in permitting the theft; yet 
didst thou wish to persuade thyself that it was still thy own. 
Thou wast solicitous to deceive me and to flatter thyself, and 
thou art now gathering the fruits of thy indiscretion. Thou 
art importuning me to take away thy life, and that I will 
comply is the only hope that lingers in thy breast. The god- 
dess is transformed, by the violence of her passions, to an in- 



268 WORKS OF FENELON". 

fernal fury. Eucharis is tormented by a flame less tolerable 
than the pains of death, and among the nymphs of Calypso, 
Jealousy has scattered her plagues with an unsoaring hand. 
Such are the exploits of that boy, whose appearance was so 
gentle and lovely. How greatly, then, art thou beloved by 
the gods, who have opened a way for thee to fly from him, 
and return to thy country, the object not only of a blameless, 
but a noble passion." Calypso is herself compelled to drive 
thee hence. The vessel is ready ; call up, then, all thy courage, 
and let us make haste to quit this island, where it is certain 
that virtue can never dwell." 

Mentor, while he was yet speaking, took Telemachus by the 
hand and led him towards the shore. Telemachus consented 
with silent reluctance, and looked behind him at every step. 
Eucharis was still in sight, though at a considerable distance. 
Not being able to see her face, he gazed at her fine hair, which, 
tied in a lock, played gracefully behind her, and at her loose 
light robe that flowed negligently in the wind. . He remarked 
the easy majesty of her gait, and could have kissed the mark 
of her footsteps on the ground. When his eye could no longer 
reach her, he listened, and he persuaded himself that he heard 
her voice. He still saw her though she was absent :' his fancy 
realized her image ;' 2 and he thought that he was talking with 
her, not knowing where he was, nor hearing any thing that was 
said by Mentor. 

But, at length, awaking as from a dream, he said : " Mentor, 
I am resolved to follow you ; but I have not yet taken leave of 
Eucharis. I would rather perish than abandon her thus with 
ingratitude. Stay only till I see her once more ; stay only till 
I bid her' farewell forever. Let me tell her that the gods, 
jealous of my felicity, compel me to depart; but that they 
shall sooner put an end to my life than blot her from my 
remembrance. O my father, grant me this last, this most 



1 " In fancy hears and sees the absent hero." — ^/j.., iv. 83. 

2 " The form of my wife, as though she were present, is before my eyes.' 
—Ovid, Tristla, III., iv. 59. 



TELEMA CHITS. BOOK YL 269 

reasonable request ; or destroy me this moment, and let me 
die at your feet. I have no desire to continue in this island ; 
nor will I give up my heart to love. Love is, indeed, a stran- 
ger to my heart ; ft»: all that I feel for Eucharis amounts but 
to friendship and gratitude. I desire only to bid her farewell, 
and I will then follow you without a moment's delay." 

" My son," replied Mentor, " my pity for you is more than I 
can express. Your passion is so violent that you are not con- 
scious it possesses you. You imagine yourself to be in a state of 
tranquillity, even while you are abjuring me to take away your 
life. You declare that you are not under the influence of love, 
while you feel yourself unable to quit the object of your pas- 
sion — while you see and hear her only, and are blind and deaf 
to all besides. So the man whom a fever has rendered deliri- 
ous tells you he is not sick. Your understanding is blinded 
by desire : you are ready to renounce Penelope, who expects 
you in Ithaca ; and Ulysses, whom you shall certainly see 
again at your return, and to whose throne you are to succeed. 
You would give up all the glory which the gods have prom- 
ised, and confirmed by the miracles which they have wrought 
in your behalf, to live with Eucharis in obscurity and disgrace ; 
and yet you pretend that your attachmeut to her is not the 
effect of love. What is it but love that troubles you ? what 
but love has made you weary of life ? and what else produced 
the transport that betrayed your secret to Calypso ? I do not 
accuse you of insincerity, but I pity your delusion. Fly, fly, 
O Telemachus, for love is conquered only by flight. Against 
such an enemy, true courage consists in fear and retreat — in 
retreat without deliberation, and without looking back. You 
cannot have forgotten the tender anxieties you have cost me 
from your earliest infancy, nor the dangers which my counsel 
has enabled you to avoid; why, then, will you distrust me 
now ? Believe me, or let me leave you to your fate. You 
know not the anguish that my heart has felt to see you rush 
forward in the path of destruction; you know not what I 
secretly suffered when I did not dare to speak to you : your 
mother felt not a severer pang at your birth. I was silent } 



270 WORKS OF FENELON. 

and suppressed even my sighs, in the fond hope that yon 
would at length return to me without admonition or reproof. 
O my son, restore to me that which is dearer than life — give 
me thyself, and be once more mine and thy own. If reason 
shall at length prevail over passion, I shall live, and my life 
shall be happy ; but if, in the contest with passion, reason 
shall give way, my happiness is at an end, and I can live no 
longer." 

During this discourse, Mentor continued to advance towards 
the sea ; and Telemachus, who had not yet sufficient resolution 
to follow him, was already so far influenced as to suffer himself 
to be led forward without resistance. Minerva, in this crisis 
of his fate, still concealed under the form of Mentor, covered 
him invisibly with her shield, and diffused round him the di- 
vine radiance of uncreated light : its influence was immediate 
ind irresistible ; and Telemachus was conscious of a strength 
of mind which, since his arrival in the island of Calypso, he 
had never felt. They came at length to the sea-shore, which 
in that place was steep and rocky — a lofty cliff, ever beaten by 
the foaming surge below. From this promontory they looked 
to see whether the ship which had been built by Mentor was 
still in the place where they had left it, and they beheld a 
scene which, to Mentor at least, was extremely mortifying and 
distressful. 

Love, who was conscious that his shafts could make no im- 
pression upon Mentor, now saw him carry off Telemachus with 
new pangs of disappointed malignity. He wept with rage and 
vexation, and went in search of Calypso, who was wandering 
about in the most gloomy recesses of the forest. The moment 
she saw him, a deep sigh escaped her, and she felt every wound 
in her bosom begin to bleed afresh. " Art thou a goddess," 
said the disdainful boy, "and dost thou suffer thyself to be 
denied by a feeble mortal who is captive in thy dominions ? 
Why is he suffered to depart with impunity?" "0 fatal 
power," replied Calypso, " let me no more listen to thy dan- 
gerous counsel, which has already seduced me from a state of 
perfect and delicious tranquillity, and plunged me into an 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK VI. 271 

abyss of misery. All counsel is, indeed, too late : I have 
sworn, by the waters of the Styx, that I will not detain him. 
This awful oath Jupiter himself, the father of the gods, om- 
nipotent and eternal, does not dare to violate. Depart, then, 
Telemachus, from this island ; depart thou also, pernicious 
boy, for my misfortunes are derived rather from thee than 
from him." 

Love, drying up his tears, replied with a smile of derision 
and disdain : " And this oath has left you without an expedi- 
ent ! Leave the matter, then, to my management. As you 
have sworn to let Telemachus depart, take no measures to de- 
tain him ; but neither I nor your nymphs are bound by your 
oath. I will incite them to burn the vessel that Mentor has 
so hastily built ; and his diligence to circumvent us shall be 
ineffectual. He also shall be circumvented in his turn, and 
find himself unexpectedly deprived of all means to rescue 
Telemachus from your power." 

The voice of Love thus soothed the despair of Calypso, as 
the breath of the zephyrs, upon the margin of a stream, re- 
freshes the languid flock which are fainting in the burning 
heat of a summer's sun. The sweet influence of hope and joy 
was again felt in her breast ; her countenance became serene, 
and her eyes soft and placid ; the glooms of care were dissi- 
pated for a moment ; she stopped, she smiled ; and she repaid 
the flattery of the wanton boy with caresses, which prepared 
new anguish for her heart. 

Cupid, pleased with having persuaded Calypso, went to try 
his influence upon her nymphs. They were scattered about 
upon the mountains like a flock of sheep, which, pursued by 
some hungry wolf, have fled far from the shepherd. Love 
collects them, and says : " Telemachus is still in your hands ; 
but if a moment is lost, he will escape you. Make haste, then, 
and set fire to the vessel which Mentor in his temerity has 
constructed to carry him off." Torches were lighted in a mo- 
ment ; they rushed towards the sea-shore, with the cries and 
gestures of frantic Bacchanals ; their hair dishevelled, and their 
limbs trembling. The flames spread ; the whole vessel was soon 



272 WORKS OF FENELOtf. 

in a blaze ; and the smoke, intermixed with sheets of fire, rose 
in a cloudy volume to the sky. 1 

Telemachus and Mentor saw the flames ; and heard the cries 
of the nymphs from the top of the rocks, Telemachus was 
secretly inclined to rejoice at what had happened ; the health 
of his mind was not yet perfectly restored ; and Mentor re- 
marked that his passion was like a fire not totally extinguished, 
which, from time to time, gleams from the embers, and fre- 
quently throws out sparks with a sudden and unexpected vigor 
"Now," said Telemachus, "our retreat is cut off, and our 
escape from the island is impossible." 

Mentor, who perceived that he was relapsing into all his 
follies, knew that not a moment was to be lost. He saw a 
vessel laying at anchor in the distance, which did not approach 
the shore, because it was well known to all pilots that the 
island of Calypso was inaccessible. This wise guardian of in- 
experienced youth, therefore, suddenly pushed Telemachus 
from the top of the rock into the sea, and instantly leaped after 
him. Telemachus, who was at first stunned by the fall, drank 
of the briny wave and became the sport of the surge. But, at 
length, recovering from his astonishment, and seeing Mentor, 
who had stretched out his hand to assist him in swimming, he 
thought only how to leave the island at a distance. 

The nymphs, who before imagined that they had secured 
their captives, uttered a dreadful cry when they saw them 
escape. Calypso, again overwhelmed with despair, retired to 
her grotto, which she filled with unavailing complaints. Love, 
who saw his triumph suddenly changed into a defeat, sprung 
up into the air, and, spreading his wings, took his flight to the 
groves of Idalia, where he was expected by Venus. The boy, 
still more cruel than his mother, consoled himself for his disap- 
pointment by laughing, with her, at the mischief they had 
done. 

Telemachus felt, with pleasure, that his fortitude and his 



1 " The conflagration rages with loose reins amid the rowers' seats, and 
oars, and painted sterna of fir.'* — JEn., v. 661. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VI. 273 

love of virtue revived as his distance from the fatal island of 
Calypso increased. " I now," said he to Mentor, " experience 
what you have told me, — what, without experience, I could 
never have believed : ' Vice can only be conquered by flight.' 
My father, how dear a testimony have the gods given me of 
their love, by granting me the guidance and protection of thy 
wisdom ! I deserved, indeed, to be deprived of both ; I 
deserved to be abandoned to my own folly. I now fear neithei 
seas nor winds ; I apprehend danger only from my passions. 
Love alone is more to be dreaded than all the calamities of 
shipwreck."^ 

12» 



BOOK VII. 



The vessel proves to be a Tyrian, commanded by Adoam, the brother ol 
Narbal, by whom the adventurers are kindly received. Adoam recol- 
lects T-jlemachus, and relates the tragical death of Pygmalion and 
Astarbe, and the accession of Baleazar, whom the tyrant his father had 
disgraced at her instigation. During a banquet which he prepares for 
his guests, Achitoas entertains them with music, which brings the Tri- 
tons, the Nereids, and other divinities of the sea, in crowds around the 
vessel. Mentor, taking up a lyre, plays much better than Achitoas. 
Adoam relates the wonders of Boetica: he describes the soft tempera- 
ture of the air, and the beauties of the country, where the utmost sim- 
plicity of manners secures to the people uninterrupted tranquillity. 

The vessel which lay at anchor, and which Telemachus and 
Mentor were approaching, was of Phoenicia, and bound to 
Epirus. 1 The Phoenicians who were on board had seen Te- 
lemachus in his voyage from Egypt, but he could not be 
sufficiently distinguished to be known while he was swimming 
in the sea. When Mentor was near enough the vessel to be 
heard, he raised his head above the water and called out with 
a loud voice: "Phoenicians, you who succor alike the dis- 
tressed of all nations, refuse not your assistance to two strangers, 
whose life depends upon your humanity. If you have any 
reverence for the gods, take us on board, and we will accom- 
pany you whithersoever you are bound." The commander of 
the vessel immediately answered : " We will receive you with 
joy ; it is not necessary that you should be known to us ; it 
suffices that you are men, and in distress." He gave orders 
accordingly, and they were taken into the ship. 

When they first came aboard, they were so exhausted and 

1 Epirus, "the mainland," a country- in the northwest of Greece, so 
called to distinguish it from Corcyra, and the other islands off the coast. 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK VII. 275 

i 

out of breath that they could neither speak nor move, for 
they had been swimming a long time, and struggling hard with 
the billows. They recovered, however, by degrees, and had 
change of apparel brought them, their own being heavy with 
the water it had imbibed, which ran off from all parts. As 
soon as they were able to speak, the Phoenicians gathered 
around them, and were impatient to hear their adventures. 
" How," said the commav.der, " did you get into that island, 
from which you have come ? It is in the possession of a god- 
dess, who suffers no man to enter it; and, indeed, it is sur- 
rounded by rocks, which are always beaten by so dreadful a 
surge that it can scarcely be approached without certain ship- 
wreck." Mentor replied : " We were driven on shore by a 
storm. We are Greeks from Ithaca, an island not far from 
Epirus, whither you are bound. If you should not touch there, 
which however is in your course, we shall be satisfied to be put 
on shore at your port ; for wc shall find friends in Epirus, who 
will procure us a passage to Ithaca ; and we shall still think 
ourselves indebted to your humanity, for the happiness of being 
again restored to all that is dear to us in the world." 

Telemachus remained silent, and left Mentor to answer for 
them both, for the faults which he had committed in the 
island of Calypso had greasy increased his prudence. He 
was now diffident of himself; and, conscious how much he 
always stood in need of the instructions of superior wisdom, 
when he had no opportunity of asking Mentor's advice, he 
watched his countenance, and endeavored to discover his senti- 
ments in his looks. 

The Phoenician commander, observing the silence of Telem- 
achus, looked earnestly at him, and thought he remembered 
to have seen him before ; but, not being able to recollect any 
particulars, " Permit me," said he, " to ask, if you have not 
some remembrance of having seen me before, for I think this 
is not the first time I have seen you : your countenance is well 
known to me ; it struck me at the first glance, but I cannot 
recollect where we have met : perhaps my memory may be 
assisted by yours." 



276 WORKS OF FENELOX. 

r 

Telemachus immediately replied, with a mixture of surprise 
and pleasure : " I have felt at the sight of you exactly what 
you have felt at the sight of me. I well remember to have 
seen you, but I cannot recollect whether in Egypt or at Tyre." 
The Phoenician, at the mention of Egypt and Tyre, like a man 
who, waking in the morning, has brought back by degrees, and 
as it were from a remote distance, the evanescent imagefr of a 
dream which had fled with the shadows of the night, suddenly 
cried out : " Thou art Telemachus, with whom Narbal con- 
tracted a friendship when we were returning from Egypt. I 
am his brother, of whom you have doubtless heard him often 
speak. I left you with him when we arrived at Tyre, being 
myself obliged to make a voyage to Boetica, 1 that celebrated 
country, near the Pillars of Hercules. Having, therefore, but 
just seen you, it is not strange that I did not .perfectly recollect 
you at first sight." 

" I perceive," said TelemacliUo, " that you are Adoam. I 
had no opportunity of a personal acquaintance with you, but I 
have heard much of you from Narbal. How should I rejoice 
to hear of him from you ; for to me his memory will be forever 
dear. Is he still at Tyre ? has he suffered nothing from the 
suspicion and cruelty of Pygmalion ?" " Telemachus," said 
Adoam, interrupting him, "fortune has now given you in 
charge to a man who will, to the utmost of his abilities, deserve 
the trust. I will put you on shore at Ithaca before I proceed 
to Epirus, and you shall not find less friendship in the brother 
of Narbal than in Narbal himself." 

Having looked aloft while he was speaking, he observed 
that the wind Cor which he had waited began to blow ; he 
therefore gave orders instantly to weigh anchor. The sails 
were spread to the breeze, and the oars divided the flood. 
Adoam then took Telemachus and Mentor apart to speak with 
them. 

"I will now," said he to Telemachus, "gratify your curi- 



1 Boetica took its name from the river Boetis (Guadalquivir), an 1 corre- 
sponds with the modern Andalusia. 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK VII. 277 

osity. The tyranny of Pygmalion is at an end; from that 
scourge the righteous gods have delivered the earth. As he 
dared to trust no man, so no man dared to trust him. The 
good were eonten* to sigh in secret, and to hide themselves 
from his cruelty, without attempting any thing against him ; 
the wicked thought there was no way of securing their own 
lives but by putting an end to his. There was not a man in 
Tyre who was not in perpetual danger of alarming his suspi- 
cion. To this danger the guards themselves were more exposed 
than others : as his life was in their hands, he feared them in 
proportion to their power, and he sacrificed them to his safety 
upon the slightest mistrust. Thus, his very search of security 
rendered the finding of it impossible. Those in whose hands 
he had deposited his life, were themselves in perpetual danger 
by his suspicion ; and the only expedient to deliver themselves 
from this dreadful situation, was to anticipate the effects of his 
suspicion by his death. 

" The first, however, who took a resolution to destroy him, 
was the impious Astarbe, whom you have heard so often men- 
tioned already. She was passionately enamored of a rich 
young Tyrian, whose name was Joazar, and had conceived a 
design of placing him upon the throne. To facilitate the exe- 
cution of this project, she persuaded the king that Phadael, 
the eldest of his two sons, being impatient to succeed him, had 
conspired against his life. She suborned witnesess to support 
the charge, and the unhappy tyrant caused Phadael to be put 
to death. Baleazar, his second son, was sent to Samos, under 
pretence of learning the manners and the sciences of Greece 
but, in reality, because Astarbe had persuaded the king that it 
was necessary to send him away, lest he should associate him- 
self with the malcontents. The ship in which he embarked 
had scarcely quitted the port, when those who had been ap- 
pointed to navigate it, having been corrupted by the perfidious 
inhumanity of Astarbe, contrived to make a shipwreck of the 
vessel in the night. Having thrown the young prince into the 
sea, they preserved themselves by swimming to some foreign 
barks that waited for them at a convenient distance. 



278 WORKS OF FENELON. 

" In the mean time, the amours of Astarbe were secrets to 
none but Pygmalion, who fondly imagined himself to be the 
only object of her affection. He who heard even the whispers 
of the breeze with distrust and dread, relied on this abandoned 
woman with a blind and implicit confidence, At the time, 
however, when love rendered him the dupe of her artifices, he 
was incited by avarice to find some pretence for putting Joa- 
zar, her favorite, to death, that he might seize upon his riches. 

" But while suspicion, love, and avarice were thus sharing 
the heart of Pygmalion, Astarbe was contriving his immediate 
destruction. She thought it possible that he might have dis- 
covered something of her connection with Joazar, and if not, 
she knew that avarice alone would furnish him with a sufficient 
motive to cut him off. She concluded, therefore, that not a 
moment was to be lost. She saw that all the principal officers 
of the court were ready to dip their hands in his blood, and 
she heard of some new conspiracy every day. Yet there was 
none whom she could make the confidant of her design, with- 
out putting her own life in his power. She therefore deter- 
mined to destroy Pygmalion by poison, and to administer it 
herself. 

" It was his general practice to eat with her in private ; and 
he always dressed his food himself, not daring to trust any 
hand but his own. While he was thus employed, he used to 
lock himself up in the most retired part of his palace, the 
better to conceal his fears and elude observation. He did not 
dare to enjoy any of the pleasures of the table, nor even to 
taste any thing which had not been prepared wholly by him- 
self. He was thus precluded from the use, not only of delica- 
cies and refinements in cookery, but of wine, bread, salt, oil, 
milk, and all other ordinary food. He lived entirely upon 
fruit, which he gathered himself from his garden, or such 
roots and herbs as he had sowed and dressed with his own 
hands. He drank no liquor but the water which he drew from 
a fountain that was inclosed in a part of the palace, of which 
he always kept the key. Notwithstanding his confidence in 
Astarbe, he did not, in this particular, lay aside his precaution 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII. 279 

even with respect to her. He made her eat and drink of 
every thing that constituted their repast before he tasted it 
himself, that he might be sure not to be poisoned without her, 
and that she might have no hope of surviving him. She con- 
trived, however, to render this precaution ineffectual ; for she 
took a counter-poison, which she had obtained of an old woman 
yet more wicked than herself, whom upon this occasion she 
made no scruple to trust, as she was already the confidante of 
her amours. As she was thus secured against danger in 
poisoning the king with food, of which she was herself to 
partake, she accomplished her purpose in the following man- 
ner : 

" At the moment when they were sitting down to their 
repast, the old woman made a noise at one of the doors of the 
apartment. The king, always fearing assassination, was greatly 
alarmed, and ran in haste to the door to see that it was 
secured. The old woman, having performed her part, with- 
drew. The king stood torpid in suspense, not knowing what 
to think of the noise he had heard, nor daring to resolve his 
doubts by opening the door. Astarbe encouraged him, 
caressed him, and pressed him to eat, having thrown poison 
into his golden cup while he ran to the door upon the alarm. 
Pygmalion, with his usual precaution, gave the cup first into 
her hand ; and she drank without fear, confiding in the anti- 
dote she had taken. Pygmalion then drank himself, and in a 
short time afterwards sunk down in a state of total insensi- 
bility. 

" Astarbe, who knew that he was capable of stabbing her to 
the heart upon the slightest suspicion, and that he might 
recover from this fit while he had yet strength to do it, imme- 
diately rent her clothes, tore her hair, and burst into clamor- 
ous lamentations. She took the dying king in her arms, 
pressed him to her bosom, and shed over him a flood of tears, 
which she had always at command. But when she saw that 
his strength was just exhausted, and the last agony coming on, 
she dropped the mask, and to prevent the possibility of his 
recovery, threw herself upon him and smothered him. She 



280 WORKS OF FENELON. 

then took the royal signet from his finger, and the diadem from 
his head, and presented them both to Joazar, whom she called 
in for that purpose. She imagined that all her partisans 
would readily concur in the gratification of her passion, and 
that her lover would not fail to be proclaimed king. But those 
who had paid their court to her with the greatest assiduity. 
were base and mercenary wretches ; who were incapable of a 
sincere affection, and, besides being destitute of courage, were 
deterred from supporting Astarbe by fear of her enemies. Her 
own pride, dissimulation, and cruelty were yet more formida- 
ble ; and every one wished that she might perish, as a pledge 
of his own security. 

" In the mean time, the palace was in the utmost confusion ; 
nothing was heard but a repetition of the words, 'The king 
is dead !' Some stood terrified and irresolute ; others ran to 
arms ; every one rejoiced at the event, but every one appre- 
hended the consequences. The news presently circulated, 
from mouth to mouth, through the whole city, where there 
was not so much as a single person that regretted the death of 
the king, which was a universal deliverance and consolation. 

" Narbal, struck with an event so sudden and awful, com- 
passionated the misfortunes of Pygmalion, though he CDnld 
not but detest his vices. He regretted, like an hones ; .nan, - 
his having betrayed himself to destruction by an unlimited 
and unreserved confidence in Astarbe ; choosing rather to be 
a tyrant, disclaimed by nature and abhorred by mankind, 
than to fulfil the duties of a sovereign and become the father 
of his people. He was also attentive to the interests of the 
State, and made haste to assemble the friends of their country 
to oppose the measures of Astarbe, under whose influence 
there was the greatest reason to apprehend a reign yet more 
oppressive than that of Pygmalion himself. 

" Narbal knew that Baleazar was not drowned when he was 
thrown into the sea, though the wretches who assured Astar- 
be of his death thought otherwise. He saved himself, under 
favor of the night, by swimming ; and some Cretan merchants, 
touched with compassion, took him into their vessel. Having 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII. 281 

no reason to doubt that his destruction was intended, and 
\eing equally afraid of the cruel jealousy of Pygmalion and 
the fatal artifices of Astarbe, he did not dare to return into his 
father's dominions. He wandered about for a long time on 
the coast of Syrk, wiierf he had been left by the Cretans who 
took him up, and gained a scanty subsistence by ten.ing a 
flock of sheep. At length, however, he found means to make 
Narbal acquainted with his situation, not doubting that he 
might safely trust his secret and his life with a man whose 
virtue had been sc often tried. Narbal, though he had been 
ill-treated by the fatner, did not look with less tenderness upon 
the son. Nor was he less attentive to his interests, in which, 
however, hir. principal view was to prevent his undertaking any 
thing inconsistent with the duty he still owed to his father, 
and therefore he exerted all his influence to reconcile him to 
his ill fortune. 

" Baleazar had requested Narbal to send him a ring as a 
token, whenever it should be proper for him to repair to Tyre ; 
but Narbal did not think it prudent during the life of Pygma- 
lion, as it wculc". nave been attended with the utmost danger 
to them botL. The tyrant's inquisitive circumspection was 
such that no subtlety or diligence could elude it ; but as soon 
as the fate he merited had overtaken him, Narbal sent the 
ring to Baleazar. Baleazar set out immediately, and arrived 
at the gates of Tyre while the whole city was in the utmost 
trouble and perplexity to know who should succeed to the 
throne. He was at once known and acknowledged, as well 
by the principal Tyrians as by the people. They loved him, 
not for the sake of his father, who was the object of universal 
detestation, but for his own amiable and gracious disposition. 
Even his misfortunes now threw a kind of splendor around 
him, which showed his good qualities to the greatest advan- 
tage, and produced a tender interest in his favor. 

" Narbal assembled the chiefs of the people, the elders of 
the council, and the priests of the great goddess of Phoenicia. 
They saluted Baleazar as their king ; and he was immediately 
proclaimed by the heralds, amid the acclamations of the 



282 WORKS OF FENELON. 

people. The shouts were heard by Astarbe in one of the 
innermost recesses of the palace, where she had shut herself 
up with Joazar, her effeminate and infamous favorite. She 
was abandoned by all the sycophants and parasites, the cor- 
rupt prostitutes of power, who had attached themselves to her 
during the life of Pygmalion ; for the wicked fear the wicked ; 
they know them to be unworthy of confidence, and therefore 
do not wish they should be invested with authority. Men of 
corrupt principles know how much others, of the same charac 
ter, abuse authority, and to what excess they carry oppression 
They wish rather to have the good set over them ; for, though 
they cannot hope for reward, they know that they shall not 
suffer injury. Astarbe, therefore, was deserted by all but a 
few wretches, who had so far involved themselves in her guilt, 
that, whatever party they should espouse, they could not hope 
to escape punishment. 

" The palace was soon forced. The guilty, naturally irreso- 
lute and timid, made little resistance, and endeavored to save 
themselves by flight. Astarbe tried to make her escape dis- 
guised like a slave, but she was recognized ana seized by a 
soldier. It was with great difficulty that the people were pre- 
vented from tearing her to pieces. They had already thrown 
her down, and were dragging her along the pavement, when 
Navbal rescued her out of their hands. She then entreated 
that she might speak to Baleazar, whom she hoped to influence 
by her beauty, and to impose upon by pretending that she 
could make important discoveries. Baleazar could not refuse 
to hear her. She approached him with an expression of sweet- 
ness and modesty in her countenance, which gave new power 
to her beauty, and might have softened rage into pity and com- 
placency. She addressed him with the most delicate and in- 
sinuating flattery ; she conjured him, by the ashes of his father, 
to take pity upon her, whom he had so tenderly loved ; she 
invoked the gods, as if she had paid them the homage of sin- 
cere adoration ; she shed a flood of tears, and, prostrating 
herself on the ground before the young king, she passionately 
embraced his knees. But as soon as she imagined these arts 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII. 

had gained an influence over him, she neglected nothing to 
render him suspicious of the most faithful and affectionate of 
his servants. She accused Narbal of having entered into a 
conspiracy against Pygmalion, and of intrigues to get himself 
chosen king instead of Baleazar, whom she insinuated he had 
intended to poison. In the same manner she calumniated 
every other person whom she knew to be a friend to virtue. 
She hoped to find Baleazar susceptible of the same distrust and 
suspicion ac his father, but the young prince, discerning and 
disdaining both her subtlety and her malice, suddenly inter- 
rupted her by calling for his guards. She was immediately 
carried to prison, and a proper number of persons, distinguished 
for their experience and their wisdom, were appointed to 
inquire into her conduct. 

" They discovered, with horror, that she had first poisoned, 
and then smothered Pygmalion, and that her whole life had 
been one uninterrupted series of the most enormous crimes. 
She was. therefore, judged worthy of the severest punishment 
which the laws of Phoenicia could inflict, and condemned to 
be burnt by a slow fire. But as soon as she found that her 
crimes were known, and her judges inexorable, she gave way 
to all the furies that had taken possession of her soul. She 
immediately swallowed poison, which she had taken care to 
conceal about her, as the means of a speedy death, if she 
should be cone emned to suffer lingering torments. Those who 
were about her soon perceived that she suffered intolerable 
pain, and offered such relief as was in their power; but, with- 
out giving any answer, she made signs that she would receive 
no assistance. They then spoke to her of the righteous gods, 
whose anger she had provoked, but, instead of expressing con- 
trition or remorse, she looked upwards with a mixture of de- 
spite and arrogance, as if she abhorred their attributes and 
defied their vengeance. 

Her dying aspect expressed only impiety and rage. Of that 
beauty which had been fatal to so many, no remains were now 
left; e^ery grace had vanished; her eyes, upon which the 
hand of death was already heavy, were turned hastily on every 



284 WORKS OF FENELON. 

side, with a wild and unmeaning ferocity ; her lips were con- 
vulsed, her mouth open, and her whole countenance distorted ; 
a livid paleness succeeded, and her body became cold : yet 
sometimes she started, as it were, back to life ; but it was only 
to express the pang that roused her by shrieks and groans. At 
length, however, she expired, leaving those that stood around 
her in a state of inexpressible fright and horror. Her guilty 
soul, without doubt, descended to those mournful regions, 
where the unrelenting daughters of Danaus are perpetually 
employed in filling vessels that Avill not hold water — where 
Ixion forever turns his wheel — where Tantalus, in vain, en- 
deavors to slake his everlasting thirst with the water that 
eludes his lips — where Sisyphus, with unavailing labor, rolls up 
the stone which eternally falls back — where Tityus "eels the 
vulture incessantly preying upon his liver, which, as fast as it 
is devoured, is renewed. 

" Baleazar expressed his gratitude to the gods for his deliver- 
ance from this monster, by innumerable sacrifices. He began 
his reign by a conduct altogether different from that of Pyg- 
malion. He applied himself, with great diligence, to revive 
commerce, which had long languished by a gradual decline. 
in matters of great importance he takes the advice of Narbal, 
yet does not submit implicitly to his direction ; for, in every 
instance, he makes tre administration of government his own 
act, and takes cognizance of all things with hij Dwn eye. He. 
hears every one's opinion, and then determines according to 
his own. He is, consequently, the idol of his people. By 
possessing their affections, he is master of more wealth than 
the cruel avarice of his father could ever hoard ; for there is 
not a man in his dominions that would not freely part with 
his whole property, if, upon a pressing necessity, he should 
require it of him. What he leaves his people, therefore, is 
more effectually his own than it would be if ht> took it away. 
All precautions for the security of his person are unnecessary, 
for he is continually surrounded with an impregnable defence 
—the affection of the public. Then*, k not a subject in his 
kingdom that does not dread the loss of his prince as ? 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII 285 

calamity to himself, and who would not interpose between 
him and danger at the hazard of his life. He is happy, and 
all his people are happy with him. He is afraid of requiring 
too much of them, and they are afraid of offering him too 
little. His moderation leaves them in affluence, but this afflu- 
ence renders them neither intractable nor insolent ; for they 
are habitually industrious, addicted to commerce, and inflexi- 
ble in supporting the ancient purity of their laws. Phoenicia 
has now reached the summit of greatness and glory, and owes 
all her prosoerity to her young king. 

" Narbal is his minister, the instrument of his virtue, and of 
wisaom. Telemachus, if he were now to see you, with 
what joy he would load you with presents, and send you back 
with magnificence to your own country ! How would he 
have rejoiced to have placed the son of Ulysses upon the 
throne of Ithaca, to diffuse the same happiness through that 
island which Baleazar dispenses at Tyre ! And how happy 
am I to render you this service in his stead !" 

Telemachus, who had listened with great pleasure to the 
relation of these events, and was yet more sensibly touched 
with the tender and zealous friendship with which Adoam 
had received him in his misfortunes, replied only by clasping 
him to his breast in a transport of gratitude, affection, and 
esteem. Adoam then inquired how he came on shore at the 
island of Calypso ; and Telemachus, in his turn, gave him the 
history of his departure from Tyre, of his passage to the isle 
of Cyprus, of the manner of his finding Mentor, of their voy- 
age to Crete, of the public games for the election of a king 
after the flight of Idomeneus, of the resentment of Venus, of 
their shipwreck, of the pleasure with which Calypso received 
them, of her becoming jealous of Eucharis, and of his being 
thrown into the sea by Mentor, upon his perceiving a Phoeni- 
cian vessel at some distance from the coast. 

Adoam then ordered a magnificent entertainment ; and, as 
further testimony of his joy, he improved it with all the pleas- 
ures of which his situation would admit. During the repast, 
which was served by young Phoenicians, dressed in white gar- 



WORKS OF FENELON. 

ments and crowned with flowers, the place was perfumed by 
burning the most odoriferous gums of the East; they were 
entertained with the sound of the flute by musicians, to whom 
the rowers had resigned their seats ; and this melody was from 
time to time interrupted by Achitoas, who accompanied his 
lyre with his voice, in strains which were worthy to be heard 
at the table of the gods, and to which even Apollo might have 
listened with delight. The Tritons, Nereids, and all the deities 
who rule the waters in subordination to the father of the deep, 
and even all the monsters of those hoary regions unknown to 
man, quitted the watery grottos of the abyss, and swam in 
crowds around the vessel to enjoy the harmony. A band of 
Phoenician youths, of exquisite beauty, clothed in fine linen 
whiter than snow, entertained them a long time with dancing, 
in the manner of their country, afterwards with the dances of 
Egypt, and at last with those of Greece. At proper intervals 
the shrill voice of the trumpet interposed, and the waves re- 
sounded to the distant shores. The silence of the night, the 
calmness of the sea, 1 the lambent radiance of the moon, which 
trembled on the surface of the waves, and the deep azure of 
the sky, spangled with a thousand stars, concurred to heighten 
the beauty of the scene. 

Telemachus, who was remarkable for a quick and lively 
sensibility, tasted all these pleasures with a high relish ; yet 
he did not dare to give his heart up to their influence. Since 
he had experienced in the island of Calypso, to his great con- 
fusion and disgrace, how easily a young mind is inflamed, he 
regarded all pleasures, however innocent, with distrust and 
dread, and watched the looks of Mentor to discover what he 
thought of these. 

Mentor was pleased with his embarrassment, but without 
seeming to notice it. At length, however, touched with this 
self-denial, he said, with a smile : " I know of what you are 
afraid, and your fear does you honor; do not, however, let it 



1 The whole of this passage is in imitation of the opening scene in the 
seventh book of the u£ueid. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII. 287 

carry you too far. It is not possible to wish you the enjoy- 
ment of pleasure more earnestly than I wish it to you, provided 
it is a pleasure that neither inflames the passions nor effemi- 
nates the character. Your pleasures must be such as refresh 
and unbend the mind, such as leave you complete master of 
yourself; not such as subdue you to their power. Those that 
I wish you, do not inflame the soul with a brutal fury, but 
soothe it, by a sweet and gentle influence, to a pure and 
peaceful enjoyment. You have endured toil and danger, and 
relaxation and solace are now necessary. Accept, then, with 
gratitude to Adoam, the pleasures that he now offers you ; 
enjoy them, my dear Telemachus, enjoy them without fear or 
restraint. There is neither austerity nor affectation i n Wis- 
dom, who__i%4ndeed, the parent of delight, for she alone has 
the secret of intermixing sports and merriment with serious 
thought and important labor ; — by labor she gives poignancy 
to pleasure, and by pleasure she restores vigor to labor. Wis- 
dom blushes not to be merry when she sees a fit occasion for 
mirth." 1 

Mentor, as he pronounced these words, took up a lyre, which 
he touched with so much skill, that Achitoas, struck with sur- 
prise and jealousy, suffered his own instrument to drop from 
his hand ; his eyes sparkled, his countenance changed color, 
and his anguish and confusion would have been remarked by 
all present, if their attention had not been wholly engrossed 
by the music of Mentor. They were afraid even to breathe, 
lest they should mingle any other sound with his harmony, 
and lose some strain of his enchanting song. Their enjoyment 
would, indeed, have been perfect, if they had not feared it 
would end too soon ; for the voice of Mentor, though it had no 
effeminate softness, was capable of all the varieties of modula- 
tion ; it was equally melodious and strong, and had an expres- 
sion perfectly adapted to the sentiment even in the minutest 
particular. 

He first sung the praises of Jupiter, the father and the sov- 

1 "It is delightful to unbend on a proper occasion." — Horace, Od., iv. 12. 



288 WORKS OF FENELON. 

ereign of gods and men,' who shakes the universe with a nod. 8 
He then represented, under the figure of Minerva issuing from 
his head, that wisdom which, proceeding from himself, as its 
only and eternal source, is diffused in boundless emanation, to 
irradiate such created minds as are open to receive it. These 
truths he sung in such a strain of unaffected piety, and with 
such a sense of their sublimity and importance, that his audi- 
ence imagined themselves transported to the summit of Olym- 
pus, and placed in the presence of Jupiter, whose eye is more 
piercing than his thunder. He then sung the fate of Narcissus, 
who becoming enamored of his own beauty, at which he gazed 
incessantly from the brink of a fountain that reflected it, pined 
away with ineffectual desire, and was changed into a flower 
that bears his name. And he last sung of the untimely death 
of the beautiful Adonis, who perished by the tusks of a boar, 
and whom Venus, unable to revive, lamented with unavailing 
grief. 

The passions of the audience corresponded with the subject 
of the song ; they melted silently into tears, and felt an inex- 
pressible delight in their grief. When the music was at an 
end, the Phoenicians looked round upon each other with aston- 
ishment and admiration. One said : " This is certainly Or- 
pheus ; and these are the strains by which he tamed the wild 
beasts of the desert, and gave motion to trees and rocks : it 
was thus that he enchanted Cerberus, suspended the torments 
of Ixion and the Danaides, and touched with pity the inexora- 
ble breast of Pluto, who permitted him to lead back the fair 
Eurydice from his dominions." Another said it was Linus, 
the son of Apollo ; and a third, that it was Apollo himself. 
Even Telemachus was little less surprised than the rest, for he 
did not know that Mentor was so excellent a proficient in 
music. 

Achitoas, who had now sufficiently recollected himself to 



1 " Father of gods and king of men," is often repeated in Virgil. 

2 " The father and director of the gods .... who shakes the world 
with his nod."— Ovid, Metam., ii. 848. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII. 289 

conceal his jealousy, began an encomium upon Mentor, but he 
blushed as he spoke, and found himself unable to proceed. 
Mentor, who perceived his confusion, was desirous to hide it 
from others; and, seeing he could not go on, he began to 
speak, that he might appear to interrupt him ; he also endea- 
vored to console him, by giving him the praise due to his 
merit. Achitoas, however, could not be consoled ; for he felt 
that Mentor surpassed him yet more in generosity than in skill. 

In the mean time, Telemachus addressed himself to Adoam. 
" I remember," said he, " that you mentioned a voyage you 
made to Bcetica, after we returned together from Egypt. 
Boetica is a country, concerning which many wonders are 
related, which it is difficult to believe. Tell me, therefore, 
whether they are true." "I shall be glad," said Adoam, "to 
describe that country to you ; for it is well worthy your curi- 
osity, and is yet more extraordinary than fame has reported it. 

" The river Boetis flows through a fertile country, where the 
air is always temperate, and the sky serene. This river, which 
gives name to the country, falls into the ocean near the Pillars 
of Hercules ; not far from the place where the sea heretofore, 
breaking its bounds, separated the country of Tarsis 1 from the 
vast continent of Africa. This region seems to have preserved 
all the felicity of the golden age. In the winter, the freezing 
breath of the north is never felt, and the season is mild ; but, 
in summer, there are always refreshing gales from the west, 
which blow about the middle of the day, and in this season, 
therefore, the heat is never intense. Thus Spring and Autumn, 
espoused as it were to each other, walk hand in hand through 
the year. The valleys and the plains yield annually a double 
harvest. The hedges consist of laurels, pomegranates, jas- 
mines, and other trees, that are not only always green, but in 
flower. The mountains are covered with flocks, whose wool, 
for its superior fineness, is sought by all nations. This beau- 
tiful country contains also many mines of gold and silver ; but 



1 This name is a mistake for Tartessus, which was situated between the 
two mouths of the Boetis (Guadalquivir). 
13 



290 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the inhabitants, happy in their simplicity, disdain to count 
silver and gold among their riches, and value that only which 
contributes to supply the real and natural wants of mankind. 1 

" When we first traded with these people, we found gold 
and silver used for ploughshares ; and, in genera], employed 
promiscuously with iron. As they carried on no foreign trade, 
they had no need of money. They were, almost all, either 
shepherds or husbandmen. As they suffered no arts to be 
exercised among them, but such as tended immediately to 
answer the necessities of life, the number of artificers was con- 
sequently small. A greater part even of those that live by 
husbandry, or keeping of sheep, are skilful in the exercise ot 
such arts as are necessary to manners so simple and frugal. 

" The women are employed in spinning the wool, and man- 
ufacturing it into stuffs that are remarkably fine and white ; 
they also make the bread and dress the food, which costs 
them very little trouble, for they live chiefly upon fruits and 
milk, animal food being seldom eaten among them. Of the 
skins of their sheep they make a light sort of covering for 
their legs and feet, with which they furnish their husbands 
and children. The women also make the habitations, which 
are a kind of tents, covered either with waxed skins or the 
bark of trees. They make and wash all the clothes of the 
family, and keep their houses in great neatness and order. 
Their clothes, indeed, are easjly made; for, in that temperate- 
climate, they wear only a piece of fine white stuff, which is 
not formed to the shape of the body, but wrapped round it 
so as to fall in long plaits, and take what figure the wearer 
thinks fit. 

" The men cultivate the ground and manage their flocks ; 
and the other arts which they practise are those only of form- 
ing wood and iron into necessary utensils ; and of iron they 
make little use, except in instruments of tillage. All the arts 
that relate to architecture are useless to them, for they build 
no houses. ' It shows too much regard to the earth,' say they, 

1 Fenelon follows the description of Strabo. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII. 291 

1 to erect a building upon it which will last longer than our* 
selves ; if we are defended from the weather, it is sufficient.' 
As to the other arts, which are so highly esteemed in Greece, 
in Egypt, and in all other nations that have admitted the innu- 
merable wants of polished life, they hold them in the greatest 
detestation, as the inventions of vanity and voluptuousness. 

" When they are told of nations who have the art of erect- 
ing superb buildings, and making splendid furniture of silver 
and gold, stuffs adorned with embroidery and jewels, exquisite 
perfumes, delicious meats, and instruments of music, they re- 
ply, that the people of such nations are extremely unhappy in 
employing so much ingenuity and labor to render themselves 
at once corrupt and wretched. ' These superfluities,' say they, 
' effeminate, intoxicate, and torment those who possess them. 
They tempt those who do not possess them, to acquire them 
by fraud and violence. Can that superfluity be good which 
tends only to make men evil ? Are the people of these coun- 
tries more healthy or more robust than we are ? Do they live 
longer, or agree better with each other? Do they enjoy more 
liberty, tranquillity, and cheerfulness? On the contrary, are 
they not jealous of each other? Are not their hearts corroded 
with envy, and agitated by ambition, avarice, and terror? 
Are they not incapable of pleasures that are pure and simple ? 
and is not this incapacity the unavoidable consequence of the 
innumerable artificial wants to which they are enslaved, and 
upon which they make all their happiness depend ?' 

" Such," said Adoam, " are the sentiments of this sagacious 
people, who have acquired wisdom only by the study of nature. 
They consider our refinements with abhorrence ; and it must 
be confessed, that, in their simplicity, there is something not 
only amiable, but great. They live in common, without any 
partition of lands. The head of every family is its king. This 
patriarchal monarch has a right to punish his children, or his 
grandchildren, if they are guilty of a fault ; but he first takes 
the advice of his family. Punishment, indeed, is very rare 
among them ; for innocence of manners, sincerity of heart, and 
hatred of vice, seem to be the natural productions of the coun- 



292 WORKS OF FENELOX. 

try. Astrea, who is said to have quitted the earth and as- 
cended to heaven, seems still to be hidden among these happy 
people. They have no need of judges, for every man submits 
to the jurisdiction of conscience. They possess all things in 
common ; for the cattle produce milk, and the fields and 
orchards fruit and grain of every kind in such abundance, that 
a people so frugal and temperate have no need of property. 
They have no fixed place of abode ; but when they have con- 
sumed the fruits, and exhausted the pasturage, of one part of 
the paradise which they inhabit, they remove their tents to 
another. They have, therefore, no opposition of interest, but 
are connected by a fraternal affection which there is nothing to 
interrupt. This peace, this union, this liberty, they preserve, . 
by rejecting superfluous wealth and deceitful pleasure. They 
are all free, and all equal. 

" Superior wisdom, the result either of long experience or 
uncommon abilities, is the only mark of distinction among 
them. The sophistry of fraud, the cry of violence, the con- 
tent! on of the bar, and the tumult of battle, are never heard in 
this sacred region, which the gods have taken under their im- 
mediate protection. This soil has never been stained with 
human blood ; and even that of a lamb has rarely been shed 
upon it. When the inhabitants are told of bloody battles, 
rapid conquests, and the subversion of empires, which hap- 
pen in other countries, they stand aghast with astonishment. 

* What !' say they, * do not men die fast enough without being 
destroyed by each other ? Can any man be insensible of the 
brevity of life ? and can he who knows it, think life too long ? 
Is it possible to suppose that men came into the world, 
merely to propagate misery, and to harass and destroy one 
another V 

" Neither can the inhabitants of Boetica comprehend how 
those, who, by subjugating great empires, obtain the name of 
conquerors, come to be so much the object of admiration. 

* To place happiness in the government of others/ say they, 
'is madness, since to govern well is a painful task. But a 
desire to govern others against their will, is madness in a still 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VII. 293 

greater degree. A wise man cannot, without violence to him- 
self, submit to take upon himself the government of a willing 
people, whom the gods have committed to his charge, or who 
apply to him for guidance and protection ; but to govern a 
people against their will, is to become miserable for the false 
honor of holding others in slavery. A conqueror is one whom 
the gods, provoked by the wickedness of mankind, send in 
their wrath upon the earth, to ravage kingdoms; to spread 
around them in a vast circle, terror, misery, and despair ; to 
destroy the brave, and enslave the free. Has not he, who is 
ambitious of glory, sufficient opportunities of acquiring it, by 
managing with wisdom what the gods have intrusted to his 
care ? Can it be imagined that praise is merited only by ar- 
rogance and injustice, by usurpation and tyranny ? War should 
never be thought of, but in the defence of liberty. Happy is 
he who, not being the slave of another, is free from the frantic 
ambition of making another a slave to him ! Those conquerors 
who are represented as encircled with glory, resemble rivers 
that have overflowed their banks, which appear majestic, in- 
deed, but which desolate the countries they ought to fertilize.'" 

After Adoam had given this description of Boetica, Telema- 
chus, who had listened to it with great delight, asked him sev- 
eral questions, which would not have been. suggested by com- 
mon curiosity. " Do the inhabitants of Boetica," said he, 
" drink wine ?" " They are so far from drinking wine," said 
Adoam, " that they make none ; not because they are without 
grapes, for no country in the world produces them in greater 
plenty or perfection ; but they content themselves with eating 
them as they do other fruit, and are afraid of wine as the cor- 
rupter of mankind. ' Wine,' they say, * is a species of poison, 
which produces madness; which does not kill men, indeed, 
but degrades them into brutes. Men may preserve their 
health and their vigor without wine ; but, with wine, not 
only their health, but their virtue is in danger.' " 

Telemachus then inquired what laws were established in 
Boetica relating to marriage. " No man," said Adoam, " is 
allowed to have more than one wife ; and every man is obliged 



294: WORKS OF FENELON. 

to keep his wife as long as she lives. In this country a man's 
reputation depends as much upon his fidelity to his wife, as a 
woman's reputation, in other countries, depends upon her fidel- 
ity to her husband. No people ever practised so scrupulous a 
decorum, or were so jealous of their chastity. Their women 
are beautiful and agreeable, but simple, modest, and laborious. 
Their marriages are peaceable, fruitful, and undefiled. The 
husband and wife seem to be two bodies animated by one soul. 
The husband manages affairs without, and the wife within ; she 
provides for his refreshment at his return, and seems to live 
only to please him ; she gains his confidence ; and, as she 
charms him yet more by her virtue than her beauty, their hap- 
piness is such as death only can destroy. From this temper- 
ance, sobriety, and simplicity of manners, they derive longevity 
and health. It is common to see among them men a hundred 
or a hundred and twenty years old, who have all the cheerful- 
ness and vigor that make life desirable." 

" But how," said Telemachus, " do they escape the calami- 
ties of war? Are they never invaded by other nations?" 

" Nature," said Adoam, " has separated them from other 
nations, by the sea on one side, and by mountains almost in- 
accessible on the other. Besides, their virtue has impressed 
foreign powers with reverence and awe. When any contest 
arises among the neighboring States, they frequently make a 
common deposit of the territory in question in the hands of the 
Boeticans, and appoint them arbitrators of the dispute. As 
these wise people are guilty of no violence, they are never mis- 
trusted. They laugh when they hear of kings who disagree 
about the boundaries of their country. ' Are they afraid/ say 
they, * that the earth will not contain room for its inhabitants ? 
There will always be much more land than can be cultivated ; 
and while any remains unappropriated by cultivation, we should 
think it folly to defend even our own against those who would 
invade it.' These people are, indeed, wholly free from pride, 
fraud, and ambition. They do no injury, they violate no com- 
pact, they covet no territory. Their neighbors, therefore, 
having nothing to fear from them, nor any hope of making 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK VII. 295 

themselves feared by them, give them no disturbance. They 
would sooner abandon their country, or die upon the spot, than 
submit to a state of slavery ; so that the same qualities which 
render them incapable of subjugating others, render it almost 
impossible for others to subjugate them. For these reasons, 
there is always a profound peace between them and their 
neighbors." 

Adoam proceeded to give an account of the traffic which the 
Phoenicians carried on in Boetica. " The inhabitants of that 
happy country," said he, " were astonished when they first saw 
the waves bringing strangers from a distant region to their 
coast. They received us, however, with great benevolence, 
and gave us part of whatever they had, without asking or 
expecting a return. They suffered us to establish a colony on 
the island of Gadira, and offered us whatever should remain of 
their wool, after their own necessities were supplied — sending 
us, at the same time, a considerable quantity of it as a present ; 
for they have great pleasure in bestowing their superfluities 
upon strangers. 

" As to their mines they made no use of them ; and there- 
fore, without reluctance, left them entirely to us. Men, they 
thought, were not over-wise who, with so much labor, searched 
in the bowels of the earth for that which could give no true hap- 
piness, nor satisfy any natural want. They admonished us not 
to dig in the earth too deep. * Content yourselves,' said they, 
1 with ploughing it, and it will yield you real benefits in 
return ; it will yield those things to which gold and silver owe 
all their value ; for gold and silver are valuable only as a means 
of procuring the necessaries of life.' 

" We frequently offered to teach them navigation, and carry 
some of their youth with us to Phoenicia; but they never 
would consent that their children should live as we do. ' If 
our children were to go with you,' said they, 'their wants 
would soon be as numerous as yours. The nameless variety of 
things which you have made necessary, would become neces- 
sary to them ; they would be restless till these artificial wants 
were supplied ; and they would renounce their virtue, by the 



WOKKS OF FEKELON. 

practice of dishonest arts to supply them. They would soon 
resemble a man of good limbs and a sound constitution, who 
having by long inactivity forgotten how to walk, is under the 
necessity of being carried like a cripple.' As to navigation, 
they admire it as a curious art, but they believe it to be perni- 
cious. * If these people,' say they, ' have the necessaries of life 
in their own country, what do they seek in ours ? Will not 
those things which satisfy the wants of nature satisfy their 
wants ? Surely, they that defy the tempest to gratify avarice 
or luxury, deserve shipwreck.' " 

Telemachus listened to this discourse of Adoam with un- 
speakable delight, and rejoiced that there was yet a people in 
the world, who, by a perfect conformity to the law of nature, 
were so wise and so happy. " How different," said he, " are the 
manners of this nation from those which, in nations that have 
obtained the highest reputation for wisdom, are tainted through- 
out with vanity and ambition ! We are so accustomed to the 
follies that have depraved us that we can scarcely believe this 
simplicity — though it is, indeed, the simplicity of nature — to be 
real. We consider the manners of these people as a splendid 
fiction, and they must regard ours as a preposterous dream " 



BOOK VIII. 

Venus, still incensed against Telemachus, requests of Jupiter that he may- 
perish ; but this not being permitted by the Fates, the goddess consults 
with Neptnne how his return to Ithaca, whither Adoarn is conducting 
him, may be prevented. They employ an illusive divinity to deceive 
Acamas the pilot, who, supposing the land before him to be Ithaca, 
enters full sail into the port of Salentum. Telemachus is kindly received 
by Idomeneus in his new city, where he is preparing a sacrifice to Jupi- 
ter, that he may be successful in a war against the Mandurians. The 
entrails of the victims being consulted by the priest, he perceives the 
omens to be happy, but declares that Idomeneus will owe his good for- 
tune to his guests. 

While Telemachus and Adoam were engaged in conversa- 
tion, forgetful of sleep, and not perceiving that the night was 
already half spent, an unfriendly and deceitful power turned 
their course from Ithaca, which Acamas, 1 their pilot, sought in 
vain. Neptune, although he was propitious to the Phoenicians, 
could not bear the escape of Telemachus from the tempest 
which had shipwrecked him on the island of Calypso. Venus 
was still more provoked at the triumph of a youth who had 
been victorious over all the power and wiles of Love. Her 
bosom throbbed at once with grief and indignation. She could 
not endure the places where Telemachus had treated her sov- 
ereignty with contempt ; turning, therefore, from Cythera, 
Paphos, and Idalia, and disregarding the homage that was paid 
her in the isle of Cyprus, she ascended the radiant summit of 
Olympus, where the gods were assembled round the throne of 
Jupiter. From this place they behold the stars rolling beneath 
their feet ; and this earth, an obscure and diminutive spot, is 
scarcely distinguished among them. The vast oceans appear 



1 In nearly all the editions of Telemachus the word is Athamas. We 
adopt with M. Lefevre, Acamas (indefatigable). 

13* 



298 WORKS OF FENELON. 

but as drops of water, and the most extended empires but as a 
little sand scattered between them. The innumerable multi- 
tudes that swarm upon the surface of the globe are like in- 
sects, and the most powerful armies resemble clusters of ants, 
contending for a grain of corn or a blade of grass. Whatever 
is most important in the consideration of men excites the 
smiles of the gods, like the sport of children ; and what we 
distinguish by the names of grandeur, glory, power, and policy, 
is, in their sight, no better than misery and folly. 

On this stupendous height Jupiter has fixed his everlasting 
throne. His eyes penetrate to the centre, and pass in a mo- 
ment through all the labyrinths of the heart; his smile diffuses 
over all nature serenity and joy ; but at his frown, not only 
earth, but heaven trembles. The gods themselves are dazzled 
with the glory that surrounds him, and approach not his 
throne but with reverence and fear. 

He was now surrounded by the celestial deities. Venus 
presented herself before him, in all the splendor of that beauty 
of which she is herself the source. Her robe, which flowed 
negligently round her, exceeded in brightness all the colors 
with which Iris decks herself amid the dusky clouds, when 
she promises to affrighted mortals that the storm shall have an 
end, and that calm and sunshine shall return. Her waist was 
encircled by that famous zone 1 which comprises every grace 
that can excite desire, and her hair was tied negligently 
behind in a fillet of gold. The gods were struck with her 
beauty, as if they had never seen it before ; and their eyes were 
dazzled with its brightness, like those of mortals when the first 
radiance of the sun unexpectedly breaks upon them after a 
long night. They glanced a hasty look of astonishment at 
each other, but their eyes still centered in her ; they perceived, 



1 "And loosed from her bosom the embroidered, varieerated cestua, 
where nil ullurements were inclosed. In it were love and desire, converse 
and seductive speech, which steal away the mind even of the very pru- 
dent."— Uomer, I/iad, xiv. 214. 



TKLTCMACHUS. BOOK VIII. 299 

however, that she had been weeping, and that grief was strongly 
pictured in her countenance. 

In the mean time she advanced towards the throne of Jupiter 
with a light and easy motion, like the flight of a bird, which 
glides unresisted through the regions of the air. The god re- 
ceived her with a smile of divine complacency, and, rising 
from his seat, embraced her.' " What is it, my dear child," 
said he, "that has troubled you? I cannot behold your tears 
with indifference : fear not to tell me all that is in your heart ; 
you know the tenderness of my affection, and my readiness to 
indulge your wish." 

" father, both of gods and men," replied the goddess, with 
a sweet and gentle, but interrupted voice, " can you, from whom 
nothing is hidden, be ignorant of the cause of my distress? 
Minerva, not satisfied with having subverted to its foundation 
the superb city which was under my protection, nor with hav- 
ing gratified her revenge upon Paris for judging her beauty to 
be inferior to mine, conducts in safety, through every nation 
and over every sea, the son of Ulysses, by whose cruel subtlety 
the ruin of Troy was effected. Minerva is now the companion 
of Telemachus ; and it is for this reason that her place among 
the celestial deities, who surround the throne of Jupiter, is 
vacant. She has conducted that presumptuous mortal to 
Cyprus, only that he might insult me. He has despised my 
power ; he disdained even to burn incense upon my altars ; he 
turned with abhorrence from the feasts which are there cele- 
brated to my honor ; and he has barred his heart against every 
pleasure that I inspire. Neptune has, at my request, provoked 
the winds and waves against him in vain. He was shipwrecked 
in a dreadful storm upon the island of Calypso ; but he has 
there triumphed over Love himself, whom I sent to soften his 
unfeeling heart. Neither the youth nor the beauty of Calypso 
and her nymphs, nor the burning shafts of immortal Love, 



1 " The sire of gods and men, smiling upon her, with aspect wherewith 
he clears the '.empestuous sky, gently kissed his daughter's lips." — Virgil, 
Mn„ i. 254. 



300 WORKS OF FENELON. 

have been able to defeat the artifices of Minerva. She has 
torn him from that island ; a stripling has triumphed over me, 
and I am overwhelmed with confusion." 

" It is true, my daughter," said Jupiter, who was desirous to 
soothe her sorrows, " that Minerva defends the breast of Telem- 
achus against all the arrows of your son, and designs a glory 
for him which no youth has yet deserved. I am not pleased 
that he has despised your altars ; but I cannot subject him to 
your power. I consent, however, for your sake, that he shall 
be still a wanderer by land and sea ; that he shall be still dis- 
tant from his country, and still exposed to danger and misfor- 
tune ; but the Destinies forbid that he shall perish ; nor will 
they permit his virtue to be drowned in the pleasures which 
you vouchsafe to man. Take comfort, then, my child ; re- 
member over how many heroes and gods your sway is absolute, 
and be content." 

"While he thus spoke, a gracious smile blended ineffable 
sweetness and majesty over his countenance. A glancing 
radiance issued from his eye, brighter and more piercing than 
lightning. He kissed the goddess with tenderness, and the 
mountain was suffused with ambrosial odors. This favor from 
the sovereign of the skies could not fail to touch the sensibility 
of Venus ; her countenance kindled into a lively expression of 
joy, and she drew down her veil to hide her blushes and con- 
fusion. The divine assembly applauded the words of Jupiter ; 
and Venus, without losing a moment, went in search of Neptune, 
to concert new means of revenging herself upon Telemachus. 

She told Neptune all that Jupiter had said. "I knew al- 
ready," replied Neptune, " the unchangeable decrees of fate ; 
but if we cannot overwhelm Telemachus in the deep, let us 
neglect nothing that may make him wretched, or delay his 
return to Ithaca. I cannot consent to destroy the Phoenician 
vessel in which he is embarked. I love the Phoenicians ; they 
are my peculiar people, and they do more honor to my do- 
minion than any other nation on earth. They have rendered 
the ocean itself the bond of society, by which the most distant, 
countries are united. Their sacrifices continually smoke upor 



TELEMaCHUS. BOOK VIII* 301 

my altars; they are inflexibly just; they are the fathers of 
commerce, and diffuse through all nations convenience and 
plenty. I cannot, therefore, permit one of their vessels to 
suffer shipwreck; but I will cause the pilot to mistake his 
course, and steer from Ithaca, the port that he designs to 
make." 

Venus, satisfied with this promise, expressed her pleasure by 
a malignant smile, and turned the rapid wheels of her celestial 
chariot over the blooming plains of Idalia, where the Graces, 
the Sports, and the Smiles expressed their joy at her return, 
by dancing round her upon the flowers, which, in that delight- 
ful country, variegate the ground with beauty and fill the air 
with fragrance. 

Neptune immediately dispatched one of the deities which 
preside over those deceptions which resemble Dreams ; except 
that Dreams affect only those that sleep, and these impose 
upon the waking. This malevolent power, attended by a 
number of winged Illusions that perpetually fluttered round 
him, shed a subtle and fascinating liquor over the eyes of Aca- 
mas, the pilot, while he was attentively considering the bright- 
ness of the moon, the course of the stars, and the coast of 
Ithaca, the cliffs of which he discovered not far distant. 

From that moment the eyes of Acamas became unfaithful 
to their objects, and presented to him a false heaven and de- 
ceptive earth. The stars appeared as if their course had been 
inverted. Olympus seemed to move by new laws, and the 
earth itself to have changed its position. A false Ithaca rose 
up before him, while he was steering from the real country. 
The delusive shore fled as he approached it : he perceived 
that he did not gain upon it, and he wondered at the cause. 
Yet sometimes he fancied he heard the noise of people in the 
port ; and he was about to make preparations, according to 
the orders he had received, for putting Telemachus ashore 
on a little island adjacent to that of Ithaca, in order to conceal 
his return from the suitors of Penelope, who had conspired 
for his destruction. Sometimes he thought himself in danger 
of the rocks which surround the coast, and imagined that he 



302 WOKKS OF FENELON. 

heard the dreadful roaring of the surge that broke against 
them ; then the land suddenly appeared to be again distant ; 
and the mountains looked like the small clouds which some- 
times obscure the horizon at the setting of the sun. 

Thus was Acamas astonished and confounded ; and the in- 
fluence of the deity which had deceived his sight impressed a 
dread upon his mind, which, till then, he had never felt. He 
sometimes almost doubted whether he was awake, or whether 
what he saw was not the illusion of a dream. In the mean 
time, Neptune commanded the east wind to blow, that the 
vessel might be driven upon the coast of Hesperia. The wind 
obeyed with such violence that the coast of Hesperia was im- 
mediately before them. 

Aurora had already proclaimed the day to be at hand ; and 
the stars, touched at once with fear and envy at the rays of 
the sun, retired to conceal their fading fires in the bosom of 
the deep, when the pilot suddenly cried out : "lam now sure 
of my port ; the island of Ithaca is before us, and we almost 
touch the shore, Rejoice, Telemachus, for in less than an 
hour you will embrace Penelope, and perhaps again behold 
Ulysses upon his throne." 

This exclamation roused Telemachus, who was now in a 
profound sleep. He awaked, started up, and, running to the 
helm, embraced the pilot, at the same time fixing his eyes, 
which were scarcely open, upon the neighboring coast. The 
view struck him, at once, with surprise and disappointment, 
for in these shores he found no resemblance of his country. 
" Alas !" said he, " where are we ? This is not Ithaca, the dear 
island that I seek. You are certainly mistaken, and are not 
perfectly acquainted with a country so distant from your own." 
" No," replied Acamas, " I cannot be mistaken in the coast of 
the island. I have entered the port so often that I am ac- 
quainted with every rock, and have not a more exact remem- 
brance even of Tyre itself. Observe that mountain which runs 
out from the shore, and that rock which rises like a tower. 
Do you not see others, that, projecting from above, seem to 
threaten the sea with their fall? and do vou not hear the 



TKLEMACHUS. BOOK YIII. 303 

waves that break against them below ? There is the temple 
of Minerva which seems to penetrate to the clouds, and there 
the citadel and the palace of Ulysses." 

"Still you are mistaken," replied Telemachus. "I see a 
coast which is elevated, indeed, but level and unbroken. I 
perceive a city, but it is not Ithaca. Is it thus, ye gods, that 
ye sport with men ?" 

While Telemachus was yet speaking, the eyes of Acamas 
were again changed. The charm was broken ; he saw the 
coast as it was, and acknowledged his mistake. " I confess," 
said he, " Telemachus, that some unfriendly power has fas- 
cinated my sight. I thought I beheld the coast of Ithaca, of 
which a perfect image was represented to me, that is now van- 
ished like a dream. I now see another city, and know it to be 
Salentum 1 , which Idomeneus, a fugitive from Crete, is founding 
in Hesperia : I perceive rising walls as yet unfinished ; and I 
see a port not entirely fortified." 

While Acamas was remarking the various works which 
were building in this rising city, and Telemachus was deploring 
his misfortunes, the wind, which Neptune had commanded to 
blow, carried them with full sails into the road, where they 
found themselves under shelter, and very near the port. 

Mentor, who was neither ignorant of the resentment of Nep- 
tune nor the cruel artifices of Venus, only smiled at the mis- 
take of Acamas. When they had got safe into the road, he 
said to Telemachus : " Jupiter tries you, but he will not suffer 
you to perish ; he tries you, that he may open before ) J ou the 
path of glory. Remember the labors of Hercules, and let the 
achievements of your father be always present to your mind. 
He that knows not how to suffer, has no greatness of soul. 
You must weary fortune, 2 who delights to persecute you, by 
patience and fortitude. Be assured that you are much less 
endangered by the displeasure of Neptune than by the caresses 



1 On the coast of Magna Grecia, in southeastern Italy. 

2 "Every fortune is to be surmounted by patience." — Virgil, ./£*»., v. 
710. 



304 WORKS OF FENELON. 

of Calypso. But why do we delay to enter the harbor ? The 
people here are our friends, for they are natives of Greece ; 
and Idomeneus, having himself been ill-treated by fortune, will 
naturally be touched with pity at our distress." ' They imme- 
diately entered the port of Salentum, where the Phoenicians 
were admitted without scruple, for they are at peace and in 
trade with every nation upon earth. 

Telemachus looked upon that rising city with admiration. 
As a young plant that has been watered with the dews of the 
night feels the glow of the morning sun, grows under the 
genial influence, opens its buds, unfolds its leaves, spreads out 
its odoriferous flowers, variegated with a thousand dyes, and 
discloses every moment some fresh beauty ; so flourished this 
infant city of Idomeneus on the borders of the deep. It rose 
into greater magnificence every hour, and discovered in a dis- 
tant prospect, to the strangers that approached it by sea, new 
ornaments of architecture that seemed to reach the clouds. 
The whole coast resounded with the voices of workmen and 
the strokes of the hammer, and huge stones were seen sus- 
pended from pulleys in the air. As soon as the morning 
dawned, the people were animated to their labor by their 
chiefs ; and Idomeneus himself being present to dispense his 
orders, the works were carried on with incredible expe- 
dition. 

As soon as the Phoenician vessel came to shore, the Cretans 
received Telemachus and Mentor with all the tokens of a sin- 
cere friendship. They immediately acquainted Idomeneus 
that the son of Ulysses had arrived in his dominions. " The 
son of Ulysses !" said he, " of my dear friend Ulysses ! of him, 
who is at once a hero and a sage, by whose council alone the 
destruction of Troy was accomplished ? Let him be conducted 
hither, that I may convince him how much I loved his father !" 
Telemachus being then presented to him, told him his name, 
and then demanded the rights of hospitality. 



1 " Not unacquainted with misfortune, I have learned to succor the dis- 
tressed."— Virgil, ^£n., i. 630. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VIII. 305 

Idomeneus received him with a smile of tender cordiality. 
" I believe," said he, " I should have known you, if I had not 
been told your name. I perceive your father's fire and firm- 
ness in your eye, the same coldness and reserve in your first 
address, which, in him, concealed so much vivacity and such 
various grace. You have his smile of conscious penetration, 
his easy negligence, and his sweet, simple, and insinuating 
elocution, which takes the soul captive before it can prepare 
for defence. You are, indeed, the son of Ulysses ; and from this 
hour you shall also be mine. Tell me, then, what adventure 
has brought you to this coast ? Are you in search of your 
father ? Alas ! of your father I can give you no intelligence. 
Fortune has equally persecuted both him and me; he has 
never been able to return to his country, and I became the 
victim of divine displeasure in mine." 

While Idomenus was thus speaking to Telemachus, he fixed 
his eyes attentively upon Mentor, as a man whose countenance 
was not wholly unknown to him, though he could not recol- 
lect his name. 

In the mean time the eyes of Telemachus were filled with 
tears. " Forgive," said he, " O king, the grief that I cannot 
hide. I ought now, indeed, to betray no passion, but joy at 
your presence, and gratitude for your bounty; yet, by the 
regret you express for the loss of Ulysses, you impress me 
with a new sense of my misfortune in the loss of a father. 
I have already long sought him through all the regions of the 
deep. Such is the displeasure of the gods, that they neither 
permit me to find him, nor to learn whether the sea has not 
closed over him forever ; -nor yet to return to Ithaca, where 
Penelope pines with an anxious desire to be delivered from her 
lovers. I hoped to have found you in Crete, where I only 
heard the story of your misfortunes ; and I had then no 
thought of approaching the coast of Hesperia, where you have 
founded another kingdom. But fortune, which sports with 
mankind, and keeps me wandering through every country that 
is distant from my own, has at length thrown me upon your 
coast — a misfortune which I regret less than any other, since, 



306 WORKS OF FENELON. 

though I am driven from Ithaca, I am at least brought to 
Idomeneus, the most generous of men." 

Idomeneus, having embraced Telemachus with great tender- 
ness, conducted him to his palace, where he inquired what 
venerable old man it was that accompanied him. " I think," 
said he, " that I have somewhere seen him before." " That is 
Mentor," replied Telemachus, " the friend of Ulysses, to whose 
care he confided my infancy, and to whom my obligations are 
more than I can express." 

Idomeneus immediately advanced towards Mentor, and gave 
him his hand. " We have seen each other before," said he ; 
" do you remember the voyage that you made to Crete, and 
the good counsel that you gave me there ? I was then car- 
ried away by the impetuosity of youth, and the love of deceit- 
ful pleasure. It was necessary that what I refused to learn 
from wisdom, I should be taught by adversity. Would to 
heaven that I had confided in your counsel ! But I am aston- 
ished to see that so many years have made so little alteration 
in your appearance ; there is the same freshness in your coun- 
tenance ; your stature is still erect, and your vigor is undimin- 
ished : I see no difference, except that there are a few more 
gray hairs upon your head." 

" If I were inclined to flatter," replied Mentor, " I would say 
that you also preserve the same bloom of youth which glowed 
upon your countenance before the siege of Troy; but I had, 
rather deny myself the pleasure of gratifying you, than offend 
against truth. I perceive, indeed, by the wisdom of your dis- 
course, that, from flattery, you could receive no gratification, 
and that he who speaks to Idomeneus risks nothing by his 
sincerity. You are, indeed, much changed ; so much, that I 
should scarcely have known you. But I am not ignorant of 
the cause — the hand of misfortune has been upon you. You 
are, however, a gainer, even by your sufferings ; for they have 
taught you wisdom. The wrinkles that Time impresses on 
your face ought not much to be regretted, if, in the mean 
while, he is planting virtue in the breast. Besides, it should 
be considered that kings must wear out faster than other men. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VHI. 307 

In adversity, the solicitude of the mind and the fatigues of the 
body bring on infirmities of age before they are old. In 
prosperity, the indulgences of a voluptuous life wear them out 
still more than physical or mental toil. Nothing is so fatal to 
health as immoderate pleasure ; therefore kings, both in peace 
and war, have pains and pleasures which precipitate old age. 
A sober, temperate, and simple life, free from the inquietudes 
both of accident and passion, divided in due proportions be- 
tween labor and rest, continues long to the wise the blessings 
of youth, which, if these precautions do not retain them, are 
ever ready to fly away upon the wings of time." 

Idomeneus, who listened with delight to the wisdom of Men- 
tor, would longer have indulged himself in so noble a pleasure, 
if he had not been reminded of a sacrifice which he was to 
offer to Jupiter. Telemachus and Mentor followed him to the 
temple, surrounded by a crowd of people, who gazed at the 
two strangers with great eagerness and curiosity. "These 
men," said they, " are very different from each other. The 
younger has something sprightly and amiable, that is hard to 
be defined ; all the graces of youth and beauty are diffused 
over his whole person, yet he has nothing effeminately soft ; 
though the bloom of youth is scarcely ripened into manhood, 
he appears vigorous, robust, and inured to labor. The other, 
though much older, has suffered no injury from time ; at the 
first view, his general appearance is less noble, and his coun- 
tenance less gracious ; but, upon a closer examination, we find, 
under this unassuming simplicity, strong indications both of 
wisdom and of virtue, with a kind of nameless superiority 
that excites at once both reverence and admiration. When 
the gods descended upon the earth, they doubtless assumed 
the form of such strangers and travellers as these." ' 

In the mean time, they arrived at the temple of Jupiter, 
which Idomeneus, who was descended from the god, had 



1 " For the gods, like unto foreign strangers, being [seen] in all forms, 
go about cities, looking iuto the insolence and good conduct of men."— 
Homer, Odyss., xvii. 485. 



308 WOEKS OF FENELON. 

adorned with tfie utmost magnificence. It was surrounded 
with a double range of columns of variegated marble, the 
capitals of which were of silver. The whole building was 
cased with marble, enriched with bas-reliefs that represented, 
the transformation of Jupiter into a bull, and his rape of Euro- 
pa, whom he bore into Crete through the waves, which seemed 
to reverence the god, though he was concealed under a bor- 
rowed form ; and the birth of Minos, the events of his youth, 
and the dispensation of those laws in his more advanced age, 
which were calculated to perpetuate the prosperity of his coun- 
try. Telemachus observed also representations of the principal 
events in the siege of Troy, at which Idomeneus acquired great 
military renown. Among these representations, Telemachus 
looked for his father ; and he found him seizing the horses of 
Rhesus, whom Diomedes had just slain ; disputing the armor 
of Achilles with Ajax, before the princes of Greece; and de- 
scending from the fatal horse, to deluge Troy with the blood 
of her inhabitants. 1 

By these achievements Telemachus knew his father ; for he 
had frequently heard them mentioned, and they had been 
particularly described by Mentor. His mind kindled as he 
considered them ; the tears swelled in his eyes ; he changed 
color, and his countenance was troubled. He turned away his 
face to conceal his confusion, which, however, was perceived 
by the king. " Do not be ashamed," said Idomeneus, " that 
we should see how sensibly you are touched with the glory 
and misfortunes of your father." 

The people were now gathered in a throng under the vast 
porticos, which were formed by the double range of columns 
that surrounded the building. There were two companies of 
boys and virgins, who sung hymns to the praise of the god, 
in whose hand are the thunders of the sky. These children 
were selected for their beauty, and had long hair, which flowed 
in loose curls over their shoulders. They were clothed in 
white, and their heads were crowned with roses and sprinkled 

1 These several achievements are recounted in the Iliad. 



TELEMACHXJS. BOOK VIII. 309 

with perfume. Idomeneus sacrificed a hundred bulls to Jupi- 
ter, to obtain success in a war which he had undertaken 
against the neighboring States. The blood of the victims 
smoked on every side, and was received into large vases of 
silver and gold. 

Theophanes, the priest of the temple, venerable for his age, 
and beloved of the god, having kept his head covered, during 
the ceremony, with the skirt of his purple robe, proceeded to 
examine the still panting entrails of the victims. He then 
mounted the sacred tripod and cried out: "Who, ye gods, 
are these strangers that ye have brought among us ? With- 
out them, the war which we have undertaken would have 
been fatal, and Salentum would have fallen into ruin Avhile it 
was yet rising from its foundation. I see a hero in the bloom 
of youth ; I see him conducted by the hand of Wisdom. To 
mortal lips thus much only is permitted." 

While he spoke his looks became wild, and his eyes fiery ; 
he seemed to see other objects than those that were before 
him ; his countenance was inflamed, his hair stood up, his 
mouth foamed, his arms, which were stretched upwards, re- 
mained immovable, and all his faculties seemed to be under 
a supernatural influence. His voice was more than human ; 
he gasped for breath, 1 and was agonized by the divine spirit 
that moved within him. 

" happy Idomeneus," again he exclaimed, " what do I see ! 
tremendous evils! but they are averted. Within there is 
peace, but without there is battle ! There is victory ! O 
Telemachus, thy achievements surpass those of thy father! 
Under thy falchion, pride and hostility grovel in the dust to- 
gether, and gates of brass and inaccessible ramparts fall in 

one ruin at thy feet ! O mighty goddess, let his father 

Illustrious youth, thou shalt again behold ." Here the 

* ** While thus before the gate she speaks — on a sudden her looks 
change, her color comes and goes, her locks are dishevelled, her breast 
heaves, and her tierce heart swells with enthusiastic rage; she appears in 
a larger form, her voice speaking her n?t a mortal." — Virgil, ^En., vi. 46. 
Description of the Sibyl. 



310 WORKS OF FENELON. 

words died upon his tongue, and his powers were involuntarily 
suspended in silence and astonishment. 

The multitude was chilled with horror. 1 Idomeneus trem- 
bled, and did not dare to urge Theophanes to proceed. Te- 
lemachus himself scarcely comprehended what he had heard, 
and almost doubted whether predictions so sublime and im- 
portant had really been delivered. Mentor was the only per- 
son, in that vast assembly, whom the effusion of the divinity 
had not astonished. " You hear," said he to Idomeneus, " the 
purposes of the gods. Against whatever nation you shall turn 
your arms, your victory is secure ; but it is to this youth, the 
son of your friend, that you will owe your success. Be not 
jealous of his honor, but receive with gratitude what the gods 
shall give you by his hand." 

Idomeneus endeavored to reply, but not being yet recovered 
from his surprise, he could find no words, and therefore re- 
mained silent. Telemachus was more master of himself, and 
said to Mentor : " The promise of so much glory does not 
much affect me ; I desire only to know the meaning of those 
last words, ' Thou shalt again behold.' Is it my father, or my 
country only, that I shall behold again ? Why, alas ! was the 
sentence left unfinished ? why was it so broken as rather to 
increase than diminish my uncertainty ? Ulysses ! O my 
father ! is it thy very self that I shall again behold ? Is this pos- 
sible ? Alas ! my wishes deceive me into hope ; this cruel 
oracle has only sported with my misfortunes; one word more 
would have made me completely happy !" 

" Reverence what the gods have revealed," said Mentor, 
" and do not seek to discover what they have hidden. It is fit 
that presumptuous curiosity should be covered with confusion. 
The gods, in the abundance of their wisdom and mercy, have 
concealed the future from the sight of man in impenetrable 
darkness. It is proper, indeed, that we should know the event 
of what depends wholly upon ourselves, as a motive to recti- 



1 " Chill horror ran thrilling cold through the bones of the Trojans." — 
Virgil, JEn., vi. 54. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK VIII. 311 

tude of conduct ; but it is equally fit that we should be igno- 
rant of those events over which we have no influence, and of 
what the gods have determined to be our lot." 

Telemachus felt the force of this reply, yet he could not 
restrain himself without difficulty. 

In the mean time Idomeneus, having perfectly recovered the 
possession of his mind, began to express his gratitude to Jupi- 
ter, for having sent Telemachus and Mentor to give him victory 
over his enemies. A magnificent entertainment was given after 
the sacrifice, and he then addressed the strangers to this effect : 

" I confess that when I returned from the siege of Troy to 
Crete, I was not sufficiently acquainted with the arts of gov- 
ernment. You are not ignorant, my dear friends, of the mis- 
fortunes which excluded me from the sovereignty of that 
extensive island; for you tell me that you have been there 
since I left it. Happy am I, if my misfortunes have taught me 
wisdom and moderation. I traversed the seas, like a fugitive, 
pursued by the vengeance both of heaven and earth ; the ele- 
vation of my former state served but to aggravate my fall. I 
sought an asylum for my household gods upon this desert 
coast, which I found covered with thorns and brambles, with 
impenetrable forests, as ancient as the earth upon which they 
grew, and abounding with almost inaccessible rocks, in which 
the wild beasts that prowled at night took shelter in the day. 
Such was my necessity, that I was glad to take possession of 
this desolate wilderness, with a small number of soldiers and 
friends who kindly became the companions of my misfortunes, 
and to consider these deserts as my country — having no hope 
of returning to that happy island in which it was the will of 
the gods that I should be born to reign. I felt the change 
with the keenest sensibility. What a dreadful example, said I, 
is Idomeneus to other kings, and what instructions may they 
derive from my sufferings ! They imagine that their elevation 
above the rest of men is a security from misfortune ; but, alas ! 
their very superiority is their danger. I was dreaded by my 
enemies and beloved by my subjects ; I commanded a powerful 
and warlike nation ; fame had acquainted the remotest regions 






312 WORKS OF FENELON. 

with my glory ; I was the lord of a fertile and delightful coun- 
try ; I received tribute from the wealth of a hundred cities ; 
I was acknowledged, by the Cretans, to be descended from 
Jupiter, who was born in their country ; I was beloved as the 
grandson of Minos, whose laws at once rendered them powerful 
and happy. What was wanting to my felicity, but the knowl- 
edge how to enjoy it with moderation ? My pride, and the 
adulation which gratified it, subverted my throne. I fell, as 
every king must fall who delivers himself up to his own pas- 
sions and to the counsels of flattery. 

" When I came hither, I labored to conceal my anguish by 
a look of cheerfulness and hope, that I might support the 
courage of my companions. ' Let us build a new city,' said I, 
* to console us for what we have lost. We are surrounded with 
people who have set us a fair example for the undertaking. 
We see Tarentum rising near us, a city founded by Phalan- 
thus and his Lacedemonians. Philoctetes is building Petilia 
on the same coast, and Metapontum is another colony of the 
like kind. Shall we do less than these strangers have done, 
who are wanderers as well as we, and to whom fortune has not 
been less severe V 

" But I wanted the comfort which I sought to "bestow, and 
concealed in my own bosom that anguish which I soothed in 
others. I hoped no other alleviation of anguish than to be 
released from the constraint of hiding it, and anticipated the 
close of the day with comfort, when, surrounded by the shades 
of night, I might indulge my sorrows without a witness. My 
eyes were then drowned in tears, and sleep was a stranger to 
my bed. Yet, the next morning, I renewed my labor with 
equal ardor and perseverance. These are the causes why I am 
old before my time." 

Idomeneus then requested the assistance of Telemachus and 
Mentor, in the war that he had undertaken. " I will send you 
to Ithaca," said he, " as soon as it shall be over. In the mean 
time, I will dispatch ships to every country in quest of 
Ulysses, and from whatever part of the known world on which 
he shall have been cast by a tempest, or by the resentment ot 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK Vin. 313 

some adverse deity, lie shall be brought in safety. May the 
gods grant that he is still alive! As for you, I will embark 
you in the best vessels that ever were built in the island of 
Crete — vessels that are constructed of trees which grew upon 
Mount Ida, the birth-place of Jupiter. That sacred wood can 
never perish in the deep ; it is reverenced equally by the rocks 
and winds. Neptune himself, in the utmost fury of his wrath, 
does not dare to swell the waves against it. Be assured, 
therefore, that you shall return to Ithaca in safety, and that no 
adverse deity shall again drive you to another coast. The 
voyage is short and easy. Dismiss, therefore, the Phoenician 
vessel that has brought you hither, and think only of the glory 
you will acquire by establishing the new kingdom of Idome- 
neus, to atone for his sufferings that are past. This, son of 
Ulysses, shall prove that thou art worthy of thy father. Even 
if the inexorable Fates have already compelled him to descend 
into the gloomy dominions of Pluto, Greece shall think with 
pleasure that she still sees her Ulysses in thee." 

Here Idomeneus was interrupted by Telemachus. " Let us 
send away the Phoenician vessel," said he ; " why should we 
delay to take arms against your enemies, since your enemies 
must also be ours? It we have been victorious in behalf 
of Acestes, a Trojan, and consequently an enemy to Greece, 
should we not exert ourselves with more ardor, and shall we 
not be more favored by the gods in the cause of a Grecian 
prince, a confederate of those heroes -by whom the perfidious 
city of Priam was overturned ? Surely, the oracle that we 
have just heard has made doubt impossible ." 
14 



BOOK IX 



Idomenens acquaints Mentor with the cause of the war: he tells hin that 
the Maiidurians ceded to him the coast of Hesperia, where he had 
founded his new city as soon as he arrived ; that they withdrew to the 
neighboring' mountains, where having been ill-treated by some of his 
people, they had sent deputies with whom he had settled articles of 
peace; and that after a breach of that treaty, on the part of Idomenens, 
by some hunters who knew nothing of it, the Mandurhns prepared to 
attack him. During this recital, the Mandnrians, having already taken 
arms, appear at the grates of Salentum. Nestor, Philoctetes, and Pha- 
langitis, whom Idoineneus supposed to be neuter, appear to have joined 
them with their forces. Mentor goes out of Salentum alone, and pro- 
poses new conditions of peace. Telemachus seeing Mentor in the midst 
of the allies, is impatient to know what passes between them. He causes 
the gates of Salentum to be opened, and joins his friend. His presence 
inclines the allies to accept the terms that Mentor lias offered on the 
part of Idomenens. The allies enter Salentum as friends. Idoineneus 
con firms the propositions of Mentor; hostages are reciprocally given ; and 
all parties assist at a sacrifice between the city and the camp, as a 
solemn ratification of the treaty. 

Mentor, regarding, with a benign and tranquil eye, Telem- 
achus, who »vas iueady filled with a noble ardor for the com- 
bat, said to him : " I see with pleasure, son of Ulysses, the 
desire of glory that now sparkles in your eyes ; but you must 
remember that your father acquired his pre-eminence among 
the confederate princes at the siege of Troy, by his superior 
wisdom and dispassionate counsels. Achilles, though he was 
invincible and invulnerable, though he was sure to spread 
terror and destruction wherever he fought, could never take 
the city of Troy, which, when he expired under her walls, 
stood yet unshaken, and triumphed over the conqueror of 
Hector. But Ulysses, whose valor was under the direction 
of consummate prudence, carried fire and sword to its centre ; 
and it is to Ulysses that we owe the fall of those lofty towers, 



TKLEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 315 

which threatened confederate Greece more than ten years 
with destruction. A circumspect and sagacious valor is as 
much superior to a thoughtless and impetuous courage as 
Minerva is to Mars ; let us, therefore, before we engage in this 
war, inquire upon what grounds it is undertaken. I am will- 
ing to incur any danger; but it is fit I should first learn from 
Idomeneus whether his war is just, against whom it is waged, 
and on what forces he builds his hopes of success." 

" When we arrived at this coast," replied Idomeneus, " we 
found it inhabited by a savage people, who lived wild in the 
forests, subsisting upon such animals as they could kill by 
hunting, and such fruits and herbage as the seasons produced 
without culture. These people, who were called Mandurians, 
being terrified at the sight of our vessels and our arms, fled to 
the mountains. But as our soldiers were curious to see the 
country, and were frequently led far into it in the pursuit ot 
their game, they met with some of the fugitives, and were ad- 
dressed by their chief to this effect : ' We have abandoned the 
pleasant borders of the sea, that you might possess them, and 
nothing remains for us but mountains that are almost inacces- 
sible : it is, therefore, but equitable, that of these mountains 
you should leave us the peaceable possession. You are fallen 
into our hands, a wandering, dispersed, and defenceless party, 
and we could now destroy you, without leaving to your com- 
panions a possibility of discovering your fate ; but we will not 
dip our hands in the blood of those who, though strangers, 
partake of one common nature with ourselves. Go then, in 
peace ! Remember that you are indebted for your lives to ou* 
humanity, and that a people whom you have stigmatized with 
the name of savages and barbarians, have given you this lesson 
of moderation and generosity.' 

" Our people, thus dismissed by the barbarians, came back 
to the camp, and told what had happened. The soldiers took 
fire at the relation ; they disdained that Cretans should owe 
their lives to a company of wandering savages, who, in their 
opinion, were more like bears than men : they went out to the 
chase in greater numbers and better armed. They soon fell in 



316 WORKS OF IENELON. 

with a party of the natives, and immediately attacked them. 
The contest was bloody ; the arrows flew on each side, as thick 
as hail in a storm, and the savages were at length driven back 
to their mountains, whither our people did not dare to pursue 
them. 

" A short time afterwards they sent two of the wisest of their 
old men to me, demanding peace. They brought me such 
presents as they had — the skins of wild beasts and the fruits of 
the country. After they had given them, they addressed me 
in these terms ; 

" ' We hold, as thou seest, king, in one hand the sword, 
and an olive-branch in the other. Here are peace and war ; 
make your choice. Peace has the preference in our estima- 
tion ; it is for peace that we have yielded to thy people the 
delightful borders of the sea, where the sun renders the earth 
fertile, and matures the most delicious fruits. Peace is still 
more sweet than these fruits ; and for peace we have retired to 
the mountains that are covered with eternal snow, where spring 
is decorated with no flowers, and autumn is enriched with no 
fruit. We abhor that brutality, which, under the specious 
names of ambition and glory, desolates the earth and destroys 
mankind. If thou hast placed glory in carnage and desolation, 
we do not envy, but pity the delusion, and beseech the gods 
that our minds may never be perverted by so dreadful a 
phrensy. If the sciences which the Greeks learn with so much 
assiduity, and the politeness of which they boast with such a 
conscious superiority, inspire them with desires so sanguinary 
and injurious, we think ourselves happy to be without these 
advantages. It will be our glory to continue ignorant and un- 
polished, but just, humane, faithful, and disinterested; to be 
content with little, and to despise the false delicacy which 
makes it necessary to have much. We prize nothing but 
health, frugality, freedom, and vigor both of body and of 
mind ; we cultivate only the love of virtue, the fear of the 
gods, benevolence to our neighbors, zeal for our friends, integ- 
rity to the world, moderation in prosperity, fortitude in dis- 
tress, courage to speak truth in every situation, and a just ab- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 317 

horrence and contempt of flattery. Such are the people whom 
we offer thee as neighbors and allies. If thou shalt be so 
blinded by the gods in their displeasure as to reject them, ex- 
perience shall teach thee, when it is too late, that those whose 
moderation inclines them to peace, are most to be dreaded 
Trhen compelled to war.' 

" While these old men were speaking, I regarded them with 
■ fixed yet unwearied attention. Their beards were long and 
neglected ; their hair was shorter, but white as snow ; their 
eyebrows were thick, and their eyes piercing ; their look was 
firm, their speech deliberate and commanding, and their de- 
portment simple and ingenuous. They were ccvered only 
with some furs, which, being thrown loosely over them, were 
fastened with a knot on the shoulder, and discovered muscles 
of a bolder swell, and arms of more sinewy strength, than those 
of our wrestlers. I told these two envoys that I was desirous 
of peace We settled several articles of a treaty between us, 
with an honest intention to fulfil them, which we called upon 
the gods to witness, and having made them presents in my 
turn, I dismissed them, 

" The gods, however, who had driven me from i kingdom 
that I was born to inherit, continued to persecute me lr this. 
Our hunting-parties that were at this time out, and were con 
sequently ignorant of our treaty, met a numerous body of these 
poor savages, who had accompanied their envoys, as they were 
returning home on the very day that the treaty had been con- 
cluded ; and falling upon them with great fury, killed many of 
them, and pursued the rest into the woods. The war was thus 
kindled. The barbarians now believe that we are not to be 
trusted, either upon our promise or our oath. 

" That they may be the better able to take the field against 
us, they have called in to their assistance the Locrians, the 
Apulians, the Lucanians, the Brutians, and the people of Cro- 
tona, Neritum, and Brundusium. The Lucanians come to 
battle with chariots that are armed with scythes. The Apuli- 
ans are covered with the skins of the wild beasts they have 
slain, and are armed with maces that are covered with knots, 



318 WORKS OF FENELON. 

and stuck full of iron spikes ; they are of gigantic stature, and 
the laborious exercises to which they are addicted render them 
so brawny and robust, that their very appearance is terrifying. 
The Locrians, who came anciently from Greece, have not yet 
lost all traces of their origin; they are less savage than the 
rest, but they have added to the regular discipline of the Greek 
troops the native vigor of the barbarians, and the habitual 
hardiness produced by constant activity and coarse fare, which 
render them invincible. They are armed with a long sword, 
and, for defence, carry a light buckler of wicker-work covered 
with skins. The Brutians are as light of foot as a roe, so that 
the grass scarcely bends under them ; nor is it easy to trace 
their steps even upon the sand. They rush upon their ene- 
mies almost before they are ssen, and again vanish with the 
same rapidity. The Crotonians are formidable for their arch- 
ery. They carry such bows as few Greeks are able to bend ; 
and if ever they should become candidates in the Olympic 
games, they would certainly carry the prize. Their arrows are 
dipped in the juice of some poisonous herb, which is said to 
grow upon the banks of Avernus, and the wound which they 
give is mortal. As for the inhabitants of Neritum, Brundusium, 
and Messapia, they have nothing but corporeal strength and in- 
stinctive courage. They make their onset with a yell which of 
all sounds is the most dreadful. They make no bad use of the 
sling, from which they discharge a shower of stones that dark- 
ens the air; but they fight altogether without order. You 
now know the origin of the war, and tjie nature of our ene- 
mies." 

After this explanation, Telemachus, who was impatient for 
battle, thought only of taking the field. Mentor again per- 
ceived and restrained his ardor. 

" How comes it," said he to Idomeneus, " that the Locrians, 
who are themselves of Grecian origin, have taken arms for the 
barbarians against the Greeks ? How comes it that so many 
colonies flourish upon the same coast, that are not threatened 
with the same hostilities ? You say, O Idomeneus, that the 
gods are not yet weary of persecuting you; and I say, that 



TELEHACHTJS.- -BOOK IX. 319 

they have not yet completed your instruction. All the misfor- 
tunes that you have suffered hitherto have not taught you what 
should be done to prevent a war. What you have yourself 
related of the candid integrity of these barbarians, is sufficient 
to show that you might have shared with them the blessings of 
peace ; but pride and arrogance necessarily bring on the calam- 
ities of war. You might have changed hostages, and it would 
have been easy to have sent some persons of proper authority 
with the ambassadors, to have procured them a safe return. 
After the war had broken out, you might have put an end to 
it by representing to the sufferers that they were attacked by 
a party of your people, who could have received no intelligence 
of the treaty which had been just concluded. Such sureties 
ought to h«we been given them as they should have required, 
and your subjects should have been enjoined to keep the treaty 
inviolate, under the sanction of the severest punishments. But 
what further has happened since the war broke out ?" 

" I thought it beneath us," said Idomeneus, " to make any 
application to these barbarians, when they had precipitately 
called together all their lighting men, and solicited the assist- 
ance of all the neighboring nations, to which they necessarily 
rendered us hateful and suspected. I thought the best thing I 
could do was suddenly to seize certain passes in the mountains 
that were not sufficiently secured, which was accordingly done ; 
and this has put the barbarians very much in our power. I 
have erected towers in these passes, from which our people can 
so annoy the enemy as effectually to prevent their invading 
our country from the mountains, while we can enter theirs, 
and ravage their principal settlements when we please. We 
are thus in a condition to defend ourselves against superior 
force, and keep off the almost innumerable multitude of ene- 
mies that surround us. As to peace, it seems at present to be 
impossible. We cannot abandon these towers without expos- 
ing ourselves to invasion, and while we keep them they are 
considered as fortresses, intended to reduce the natives to a 
state of slavish subjection." 

" I know," replied Mentor, " that to the wisdom of Idom 



320 WORKS OF FENELON. 

eneus, truth will be most welcome without ornament and 
disguise. You are superior to those who, with equal weakness 
and timidity, turn away their eyes at her approach, and not 
having courage to correct their faults, employ their authority 
to support them. I will then freely tell you that these savages 
set you a noble example when they came with propositions of 
peace. Did they desire peace because they were not able to 
sustain a war ? Did they want either courage or strength to 
take the field against you ? Certainly they did not, for their 
martial spirit is now equally manifest, with the number and 
force of their allies. Why was not their example thought 
worthy of imitation ? You have been deceived into misfortune 
by false notions, both of honor and shame. You have been 
afraid of making your enemies proud ; but you have, without 
scruple, made them powerful, by an arrogant and injurious 
conduct, which has united innumerable nations against you. 
To what purpose are these towers, of which you have so pom- 
pously displayed the advantages, but to reduce all the sur- 
rounding nations to the necessity, either of perishing them- 
selves, or of destroying you to preserve their freedom ? You 
erected these towers for your security, but they are really the 
source of your danger. 

"A kingdom is best fortified by justice, moderation, and 
good faith, by which neighboring States are convinced that 
their territories will never be usurped. The strongest walls 
may give way, by various accidents, which no sagacity can 
foresee ; the best conducted war may be rendered unsuccessful, 
by the mere caprice and inconsistency of Fortune ; but the 
love and confidence of neighboring States that have long expe- 
rienced your moderation, will surround you with bulwarks 
against which no force can prevail, and which temerity will 
seldom attack. If you shall be assailed by the folly and injus- 
tice of some neighboring power, all the rest, being interested 
in your preservation, will unite in your defence. The assistance 
of united nations, who would find it their interest to support 
yours, would give you advantages greatly superior to any that 
you can hope from these boasted towers, which can only render 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 321 

irremediable those evils they were intended to obviate. If you 
had been careful, at first, to prevent jealousy in the neighbor- 
ing States, your rising city would have flourished in peace, and 
you would have become the arbiter of all the nations in Hes- 
peria. 

" Let us, however, at present, consider only how the future 
can be made to atone for the past. 

" You say, there are many colonies settled upon this coast 
from Greece. These, surely, must be disposed to succor you. 
They cannot have forgotten the name of Minos, the son of Ju- 
piter, nor your achievements at the siege of Troy, where you 
often signalized yourself among the Grecian princes in the 
cause of Greece. Why do you not engage these colonies in 
your interest ?" 

" These colonies," replied Idomeneus, " have all resolved to 
stand neuter. They have, indeed, some inclination to assist 
me ; but the magnificent appearance of our city, while it is yet 
rising from its foundations, Las alarmed them. The Greeks, as 
well as the rest of our neighbors, are apprehensive that we 
have designs upon their liberty. They imagine that after hav- 
ing subdued the barbarians of the mountains, we shall push 
our ambition further. In a word, all are against us. Those 
even who do not openly attack us, secretly wish to see us hum- 
bled ; and jealousy has left us without a single ally." 

" This is, indeed, a strange extremity," said Mentor. " By 
attempting tp appear powerful, you have subverted your 
power ; and, while you are the object of enmity and terror to 
your neighbors from without, your strength is exhausted with- 
in, to maintain a war which this enmity and terror have made 
necessary. You are, indeed, unfortunate to have inclined this 
calamity, but still more unfortunate to have derived from it but 
half the wisdom it might have taught you. Is it necessary you 
vhould lose a second kingdom before you learn to foresee those 
evils which expose you to such a loss ? Leave your present 
difficulties, however, to me ; tell me only what Grecian citiec 
there are upon this coast." 

" The principal," said Idomeneus, " is Tarentum, which was 
14* 






322 WORKS OF FENELON. 

founded about three years ago by Phalanthus. A great num- 
ber of boys were born in Laconia, of women that forgot their 
husbands during the Trojan war. When these husbands re- 
turned, these women renounced their children to atone for their 
crime. The boys, being thus destitute both of father and 
mother, abandoned themselves, as they grew up, to the most 
criminal excesses, The laws being executed against them with 
great severity, they formed themselves into a body under Pha- 
lanthus, a bold, enterprising, and ambitious chief, who, by 
various artifices, having gained the hearts of the young men, 
brought them to this coast, where they have made another 
Lacedemon of Tarentum. On another spot, Philoctetes, who 
gained so much renown at the siege of Troy by bringing 
thither the arrows of Hercules, has raised the walls of Petiiia, 
less powerful, indeed, than Tarentum, but governed with much 
greater wisdom. And, at a little distance, there is Metapon- 
tum, a city which the Pylians have founded under the direc- 
tion of Nestor." 

" How !" said Mentor, " have you Nestor in Hesperia, and 
could you not engage him in your interest? — Nestor, under 
whose eye you have so often fought before the walls of Troy, 
and who was then your friend, engaged in a common cause, 
and endeared by mutual danger V " I have lost him," said 
Idomeneus, " by the artifices of these people, who are barba- 
rians only in name ; for they have had the cunning to persuade 
him that I intended to make myself tyrant of He|peria " " We 
will undeceive- him," replied Mentor. " Telemachus saw him 
at Pylos, before he founded this colony, and before we under- 
took to search the world for Ulysses. By Nestor, Ulysses can- 
not be forgotten ; and he must still remember the tenderness 
which he expressed for Telemachus his son. Our principal 
care must be to remove his suspicions. This war has been 
kindled by the jealousy you have excited in your neighbors, 
and by removing that jealousy it will be extinguished. Once 
mere I entreat you to leave the management of this affair to 
me." 

Idomeneus was so moved by this address of Mentor, that he 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 



323 



was at first unable to reply, and could only clasp him to his 
breast in an ecstasy of speechless tenderness. At last, though 
not without difficulty, he found words : " Thou art, sage, 
the messenger of heaven ! I feel thy wisdom, and renounce 
my errors ; yet I confess that . the same freedom in another 
would have provoked my anger. Thou only couldst have per- 
suaded me to seek for peace. I had resolved to perish or to 
conquer, but it is better I should be guided by thy counsel 
than by my own passions. How happy is Telemachus, who, 
with such a guide, can never wander as I have wandered ! I 
trust, with implicit confidence, to thee : to thee the gods have 
communicated celestial wisdom, nor could the counsel of 
Minerva have been more salutary than thine. Go, then ; 
promise, conclude, concede whatever my power can fulfil, 
ratify, or give up : all that Mentor shall do, Idomeneus shall 
approve." v 

While Idomeneus was still speaking, they were alarmed by 
a sudden and confused noise, — the rattling of chariots, the 
neighing of horses, the shouts of men, and the sound of the 
trumpet. The people cried out that the enemy had made a 
detour, and had come down, without attempting the passes 
that Idomeneus had secured, to besiege Salentum. The old 
men and the women were struck with consternation. " Alas !" 
said they, " have we then quitted our native country, the dear 
and fertile plains of Crete, and followed an unfortunate prince, 
through all the dangers of the seas, to found a new city, which, 
like Troy, shall be reduced to ashes !" From the walls, which 
were scarcely finished, there could be seen in the vast plain 
below, the casques, cuirasses, and shields of the enem} T , which 
glittered in the sun, and almost dazzled the sight. Their 
spears covered the earth to the horizon, like the rich harvests 1 
which Ceres, under the summer's sun, ripens in the fields of 
Enna, 2 to reward the labor of the husbandman. Among these 

1 " A hideous crop of drawn swords shoots up, with horrid aspect, far 
and wide, aud the arms of brass, struck with the sunbeams, glitter and 
dart their radiance to the clouds." — Virgil, jfin., vii. 525. 

3 Now Castro Giovani. Ceres was particularly worshipped in this city. 



32<± WORKS OF FENELON. 

were discovered the chariots armed with scythes ; and all the 
different nations in the confederacy were, by their arms and 
habits, easily distinguished. ' 

Mentor, that he might view them to greater advantage, 
ascended a high tower ; and Idomeneus and Telemachus fol- 
lowed him. They presently discovered Philoctetes on one 
side, and Nestor, who was easily known by his venerable age, 
with his son Pisistratus, on the other. " How is this !" cried 
Mentor; "you supposed that Philoctetes and Nestor would 
content themselves with affording you no assistance; bat 
you see that they are in arms againt you, and, if I am not 
deceived, those other troops, that come on with so deliberate 
a pace and in such perfect order, are Lacedemonians, under 
the command of Phalanthus. All are against you ; there is 
not a single nation upon the coast of which you have not 
made an enemy, without intending it." 

Mentor, the moment he had made this discovery, descended 
hastily from the tower, and went towards the gate of the city, 
on that side towards which the enemy advanced : he immedi- 
ately ordered the sentinel to open it; and Idomeneus, aston- 
ished at the commanding dignity of his deportment, did not 
dare to ask his design. He went out at the gate, and, making 
a sign with his hand that nobody should follow him, advanced 
directly towards the front of the enemy, who were astonished 
to see a man, wholly unattended, present himself before them. 
While he was yet at a distance, he held out to them the branch 
of an olive, as a token of peace, and when he was near enough 
to be heard, he demanded that their chiefs should be assembled. 
As soon as they were collected together, he addressed them in 
these terms : 

" I see before me the strength of every nation that flourishes 
in this happy country, and I know that the generous purpose 
of this assembly is the defence of a common cause of liberty. 
I honor your zeal ; but permit me to point out an easy way, 
by which your liberty and honor may be preserved, without. 
the effusion of blood. Among other princes in this assembly 
I see Nestor. Thy years and wisdom, O Nestor, have ac- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 325 

quainted thee with the calamities of war, even when it is un- 
dertaken with justice, and is favored by the gods. War is 
the most dreadful of all evils by. which heaven has afliicted 
man. Thou canst never forget what was suffered by the 
Greeks, during the ten years they spent before the walls of 
Troy — what divisions among their chiefs! what caprices of 
fortune ! what carnage from the hand of Hector ! what calamity 
in distant cities, during the long absence of their kings ! and 
what misfortunes at their return ! — how some were ship- 
wrecked on the promontory of Caphareus ; how some perished, 
with circumstances of yet more horror, in the arms of their 
wives. The gods, doubtless, in their wrath, suffered them to 
be seduced by the false splendor of that expedition ; may they 
never, people of Hesperia, distinguish you by so fatal a 
victory ! Troy, indeed, is in ashes ; but it would have been 
better for Greece if she had still flourished in all her glory 
and Paris had still enjoyed, with Helen, such pleasures as art 
permitted to infamy and guilt. Do not you, Philoctetes 
who were so long wretched and abandoned in the isle of Lem 
nos, fear the like calamities from a like war. Have not the 
people of Laconia suffered equally by the long absence of their 
princes, their captains, and their soldiers, who went to the 
siege of Troy ? And is there a single Grecian, at this hour, 
on the coast of Hesperia, that is not a fugitive from his country, 
in consequence of that fatal expedition ?" 

During this address, Mentor advanced towards the Pylians; 
and Nestor, recollecting his features, came forward to salute 
him. " It is with great pleasure," said he, "that I once more 
give my hand 'to Mentor. It is many years since I first saw 
you in Phocis ; you were then only fifteen years old, but I 
perceived the dawning of that wisdom that has been so con- 
spicuous to the world. Tell us, however, by what chance you 
came hither; and what expedient you have thought of, to 
prevent a war ? Idomeneus has compelled us to attack him. 
We demand only peace, which is our interest and our desire ; 
but it is impossible that peace should be secured till he is 
destroyed. He has violated all his engagements with the 



326 WORKS OF FENELON. 

neighboring people ; and if we were now to conclude a treaty 
with him, it would serve no other end than to dissolve our 
confederacy, upon which alone our safety depends. He has 
sufficiently manifested his ambition to reduce every other na- 
tion to slavery ; and we have no means to establish our own 
liberty, but the subversion of his new kingdom. His want of 
public faith has reduced us to the alternative of either putting 
an end to his power or of receiving his yoke. If you can 
show that he may still be trusted with safety, and assure us 
of peace in consequence of a treaty, all the nations that you 
see here confederated against him will gladly lay down their 
arms, and we will confess that your wisdom is greater than 
ours." 

" You know," replied Mentor, " that Ulysses has intrusted 
his son Telemachus to my care. The young man, impatient 
to discover what had become of his father, went first to Pylos, 
where you received him with all the kindness that he had 
reason to expect from the friend of his father ; and when he 
left, you appointed your own son to conduct him on his way. 
He afterwards undertook many distant voyages by sea. He 
has visited Sicily and Egypt, and the islands of Cyprus and 
Crete. The winds, or rather the gods, have at length thrown 
him upon this coast, as he was returning to Ithaca. We are 
just come in time to spare you the horrors of another war; for 
you shall not now trust in Idomeneus, but in the son of Ulysses 
and myself, for the fulfilling of whatever shall be stipulated in 
a treaty of peace." 

During this conference between Mentor and Nestor, in the 
midst of the confederate troops, Idomeneus and Telemachus, 
with all the Cretans under arms, were spectators of the scene 
from the walls of Salentum. They were very attentive to dis- 
cover in what manner Mentor's discourse was received ; and 
wished they could have been present at the conference of two 
men, so venerable for age and wisdom. Nestor had always 
been considered as superior to the other princes of Greece in 
experimental knowledge and graceful elocution. It was he 
that restrained the anger of Achilles, the pride of Agamem- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 327 

non, the ferocity of Ajax, and the precipitate courage of Di 
omedes. Persuasion, sweet as honey, distilled from his lips : 
the sound of his voice alone was sufficient to excite attention ; 
when Nestor spoke, surrounding heroes were silent, and he 
alone had the power of soothing discord into peace. He be- 
gan now to feel the chilling influence of age ; but his words 
were still forcible and still sweet. He frequently related past 
events, that youth might be instructed by his experience ; and 
though his speech was somewhat slow, yet his narratives were 
pleasing. 

But this venerable sage, so admired by all Greece, seemed 
to lose all his eloquence and all his dignity, from the moment 
that he appeared in competition with Mentor. In comparison 
with him, he seemed to be withered and depressed by age; for 
the vigor and activity of Mentor appeared to have sufferea no in- 
jury frDm time. In the words of Mentor, though they were grave 
and simple, there was a vivacity and authority which began to 
be wanting in those of Nestor. What he said was short, pre- 
cise, and nervous. He made no repetitions, and he spoke only 
to the point in question. If it was necessary to mention the 
sai ie thing more than once, either to inculcate or to persuade, 
it was always by some happy simile or allusion. He had also 
the art of insinuating truth by a kind of nameless complaisance 
and good-humor, when it was necessary to accommodate him- 
self to particular dispositions and capacities. There was some- 
thing in the appearance of these persons that strongly excited 
veneration and love among the multitude that surrounded 
them 

The forces that were confederated against Salenturr crowded 
one upon another, that they might get a nearer vie^w of their 
persons, and catch up some fragment of their discourse. Idom 
eneus, and the people that were with him, fixed their eyes 
upon them with the utmost eagerness and ardor, to discover 
the purport of what they said by their gestures and coun- 
tenance. 

Compelled by his impatience, which he could no longer 
restrain, Telemachus disengaged himself from the crowd, and 



WORKS OF FENELON. 

running to the gate by which Mentor had gone out, commanded 
it to be opened with a tone of authority which was immediately 
obeyed. Idomeneus, who believed him to be still standing at 
his side, was in a few moments surprised to see him running 
across the plain, and not far from the place where Nestor stood. 
Nestor immediately knew him, and advanced, with haste in his 
looks, but with a slow and heavy pace, to receive him. Telem- 
achus threw himself on his neck, and held him locked in his 
arms, without power to speak. At last he cried out: "0 my 
father, I fear not to claim you by the dearest tie ; the loss of 
him from whom I derived my birth, and the parental kindness 
which I have experienced in you, give me a right to call you 
by this tender name. You are a father whom I am again per- 
mitted to embrace. might I once more be permitted thus 
to embrace Ulysses ! If any thing can atone for his loss, it is 
the finding of his wisdom, his virtues, and his tenderness in 
you." 

The affectionate ardor of his address melted Nestor into 
tears, and he was touched with a secret pleasure at perceiving 
the same expression of tender sensibility in his young friend, 
which gave new grace to his countenance. The beauty, the 
sweetness, and the noble confidence of this young stranger, 
who had without precaution ventured among so many enemies, 
astonished the allies. " Is not this the son of the old man," 
said they, " who came to speak with Nestor ? We certainly 
see the same wisdom at two ages. In one of them it is only 
in blossom, in the other it is matured into fruit." 

Mentor, who had with great pleasure observed the tender- 
ness with which Nestor received Telemachus, availed himself 
of a disposition so favorable to his purpose. " Here is the son 
of Ulysses," said he, " so dear to all Greece, and so tenderly 
beloved by you. I offer him as a hostage, as the dearest 
pledge that can be given, for the accomplishment of whatever 
shall be promised on the part of Idomeneus. You cannot sup- 
pose that I would aggravate the loss of the father by that of 
the son, or expose myself to the reproaches of Penelope for 
having sacrificed her child to the ambition of the new king of 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 329 

Salentuin. With this pledge, ye nations of Hesperia, volunta- 
rily offered by himself, and sent by the gods that are lovers 
of amity, I begin my propositions for establishing a lasting- 
peace." 

At the name of peace, a confused murmur was heard spread- 
ing from rank to rank, — an inarticulate expression of anger, 
which was with difficulty restrained ; for all that were present 
thought every moment lost by which the battle was delayed. 
They imagined that Mentor had no design but to soften their 
resentment and rob them of their prey. The Mandurians, in 
particular, could not bear to think of being again deceived. 
As they feared the eloquence of Mentor would gain over their 
allies, they frequently attempted to interrupt him. TLey began 
to suspect all the Greeks that were in the field. Mentor, who 
perceived this suspicion, immediately resolved to increase it, 
that he might weaken the confederacy by dividing it into 
factions. 

" I confess," said he, " that the Mandurians have reason to 
complain, and to insist upon satisfaction for the injury they 
have suffered ; but is it not equally reasonable that the ancient 
inhabitants of the country should regard all Greeks, who have 
established colonies upon this coast, with suspicion and malig- 
nity ? The Greeks, therefore, ought to maintain a firm union 
among themselves, that they may be able to compel a proper 
treatment from the nations that surround them, although they 
ought not, upon any pretence, to usurp their territory. I know 
that Idomeneus has unfortunately given sufficient cause of 
jealousy, but this jealousy may easily be removed. Telemachus 
and myself are ready to become hostages for his future good 
faith, and to continue in your power till his stipulations shall 
be fulfilled. I know," said he, addressing himself to the Man- 
durians, " that you are provoked at the Cretans having seized 
the passes of the mountains by surprise, and secured to them- 
selves the power of entering at pleasure the country to which 
you have retired, that you might leave them the level country 
upon the sea-coast. These passes the Cretans have fortified by 
high towers, strongly garrisoned. These towers, then, I sup- 



330 WORKS OF FENELON. 

pose, are the immediate cause of the war : if there is any other, 
let it be assigned." 

The chief of the Mandurians then advanced, and spoke to 
the following effect : " Whatever is the cause of the war, we 
have done every thing that was possible to avoid it. The gods 
are our witnesses that we made use of every art to keep peace 
among us, till she v/as driven away by the restless ambition of 
the Cretans, and the perfidy that made it impossible to trust 
them, even on their oath. These infatuated people have 
reduced us to the fatal extremity of perishing ourselves, or 
destroying them. While they continue in possession of the 
passes they have fortified, we shall always apprehend a design 
to invade our territory, and enslave our persons. If they had 
a sincere desire to live at peace with their neighbors, they 
would rest satisfied with the country which we have volunta- 
rily ceded to them ; they would have formed no ambitious 
designs against the liberty of others, and, consequently, could 
never be solicitous to secure the avenues by which their terri- 
tories could be invaded. But wise as thou art, O full of days, 
thou knowest them not ; it is by misfortune only that we know 
them. Cease then, O beloved of heaven, to prevent so just 
and necessary a war, without which Hesperia must forever 
despair of peace. They are an ungrateful, a perfidious, an in- 
human people, whom the gods have sent among us in their 
anger, to interrupt our tranquillity and punish our offences. 
But the gods, when they have punished, will avenge us, and 
our enemies also shall have experience that they are just/' 

At these words the whole assembly was moved. It seemed 
as if Mars and Bellona were passing from rank to rank, and 
kindling in every bosom that rage of war which Mentor had 
labored to extinguish. But he addressed himself again to the 
assembly in these terms : 

" If I offered promises only, they might reasonably be 
rejected ; but what I offer you is certain and immediate ad- 
vantage. If you are not content to receive Telemachus and 
myself as hostages, twelve of the noblest and bravest Cretans 
shall be delivered into your hands. It is, however, but just 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK IX. 331 

that hostages should also be given on your part, for Idome- 
neus, though he desires peace, desires it without fear and 
without meanness. He desires peace upon the same principles 
on which you say you desire it — wisdom and moderation ; 
not bejause he desires to repose in voluptuous tranquillity, or 
is terrified by a prospect of the dangers of war. He is, like 
you, ready to perish or to conquer ; but he prefers peace to the 
most splendid victory. He disdains the fear of being van- 
quished ; but he confesses that he fears to be unjust, and is 
not ashamed to make an atonement for his faults. He offers 
you peace with the sword in his hand. But he would not 
haughtily impose it upon his own conditions, for he sets no 
value upon a compulsory treaty. He desires a peace, in which 
all parties shall be content ; which shall put an end to all 
jealousies, appease all resentment, and remove all distrust. 
His sentiments are just what you would wish them to be, and 
nothing is necessary but to convince you of this truth, which 
would not be difficult, if you would hear me without prejudice 
and passion. 

" Hear then, ye nations, distinguished by valor ; and hear, 
ye chiefs, whom wisdom has united, what I shall now offer on 
the part of Idomeneus. It is not just that he should invade 
the territory of his neighbors, neither is it just that his terri- 
tory should be invaded. He consents that the towers by which 
he has fortified the passes should be garrisoned by neutral 
troops You, Nestor, and you, Philoctetes, are of Grecian 
origin yet in this quarrel you have declared against Idome- 
neus ; you cannot, therefore, be suspected of partiality to his 
interests ; you take part only in the common cause — the peace 
and liberty of Ilesperia. To you, then, the passes which have 
been the causa of the war shall be confided. You have not 
less interest in preventing the original natives of Hesperia from 
destroying Salentum, a new colony like your own, than in pre- 
venting Idomeneus from usurping the possessions of his neigh- 
bors. Hold, then, the balance between them, and instead of 
destroying, by fire and sword, a people whom you ought to 
cherish and to love, secure to yourselves the glory of acting at 



332 WORKS OF FENELON. 

once as mediators and judges. You will, perhaps, tell me that 
these conditions are too good to be fulfilled, but I shall abun- 
dantly satisfy you that Idomeneus is sincere. 

"The hostages which I have already mentioned shall be 
reciprocally given and detained till the passes shall be put into 
your hands. When the security, not only of Salentum, but of 
all Hesperia, is at your discretion, will you not be content ? 
Whom then can you distrust but yourselves ? You do not 
dare to confide in Idomeneus : but as a proof that his intention 
is honest, he is ready to confide in you. He is ready to trust 
you with the quiet, the life, and the liberty of himself and his 
people. If it is true that you desire only an equitable and 
lasting peace, such a peace is now offered you upon terms that 
leave you no pretence to reject it. Let me, however, once 
more caution you against imagining that Idomeneus has made 
this proposal from fear. His motives are prudence and equity, 
and conscious of the rectitude of his intention he will be under 
no concern about your opinion, though you should impute that 
to weakness which he knows to proceed from virtue. He was, 
in the beginning, guilty of some faults, and he thinks it an 
honor to acknowledge them by the offer of such terms as an- 
ticipate your wishes. He who hopes that he shall be able to 
hide hie faults by affecting to support them with arrogance and 
pride, discovers the most deplorable weakness, the most des- 
picable vanity, and the grossest ignorance of his own interest ; 
buc he who acknowledges his fault to an enemy, and offers 
reparation, gives the strongest proof that he can never commit 
them again, and displays a wisdom and fortitude which, if 
peace is rejected, must make his enmity formidable. Beware, 
then, that the fault in the present quarrel does not become 
yours. If you reject justice and peace when they sue for 
acceptance, be assured that the cause of peace and justice will 
be avenged. Idomeneus, who has just reason to fear the dis- 
pleasure of the gods, will engage them in his favor against you. 
Telemachus and myself will take up arms in his defence, and I 
call the powers both of heaven and of hell to witness, that the 
proposals which I have now offered you are just." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 333 

Mentor then lifted up the olive-branch which he held in his 
hand, that the distant multitude might behold the symbol of 
peace. The chiefs, who saw him near, were astonished and 
dazzled with the celestial radiance that sparkled in his eyes, 
and perceived in him something majestic and commanding 
beyond all that fancy had given to created beings. The magic 
of his eloquence, at once so forcible and so sweet, had, as it 
were, stolen away their hearts ; its power was secret, but irre- 
sistible, like that of the mysterious spells which, in the dead 
silence of the night, arrest the moon and the stars of hea- 
ven, calm the raging of the sea, command the winds and the 
waves to be still, and suspend the most rapid rivers in their 
course. 1 

He appeared, in the midst of this rude, impetuous multitude, 
like Bacchus surrounded by tigers, whose ferocity had been 
charmed away by the sweetness of his voice, till they expressed 
their fondness by their caresses, and their submission by lick- 
ing his feet. At first, the whole assembly was silent. The 
chiefs looked upon each other, unable to oppose the eloquence 
of Mentor, and wondering who he could be. Every eye of the 
surrounding multitude was immovably fixed upon him. Every 
tongue was held silent, for fear he should have still something 
to say, which the words of another might prevent from being 
heard. Though they conceived nothing could be added to 
what he had said already, yet they wished that he had not 
been silent so soon. His words might be said to be engraven 
on their hearts. His elocution made him not only believed, 
but beloved, and held in suspense all the faculties of those that 
Heard him, who scarcely dared even to breathe lest they should 
'ose the least word that issued from his lips. 

This silence was succeeded by a kind of low murmur, which 
gradually diffused itself through the whole assembly. It was 
no longer the confused sound of inarticulate indignation, but 
the whisper of gentleness and complacency, which were also 
silently expressed in every countenance. The Mandurians, who 

1 There are many similar passages in the ancient poets. 



334 WORKS OF FENELON. 

had been so lately transported with rage, now let their weapons 
fall from their hands. The fierce Phalanthus, with his Lace- 
demonians, wondered to find themselves softened into kindness. 
The rest of the united nations began to sigh after the peace 
which had been held up before them. Philoctetes, whose 
sensibility had been increased by misfortune, could not refrain 
from tears. Nestor, who was so transported with admiration 
and delight at the discourse of Mentor that he was unable to 
speak, embraced him with ineffable tenderness ; and the whole 
multitude cried out together, as if by a signal : " O stranger, 
thy wisdom has disarmed us ! Peace ! Peace !" 

In the first interval of silence, Nestor attemoted to speak ; 
but the troops, fearing he might start some difficulty, again 
cried out, with the utmost impatience : " Peace ! Peace !" The 
chiefs found no way of putting them to silence buo by joining 
in the exclamation. 

Nestor, perceiving that a set discourse could not be heard, 
contented himself with saying: "You see, Mentor, what 
wonders the words of a good man can produce. When wisdom 
and virtue speak, every passion is calm. Our resentment, how- 
ever just, is changed into friendship, and our impatience for 
war into a desire of perpetual peace. The peace that you have 
offered, we accept." The chiefs at the same time stretched out 
their hands in token of their consent. 

Mentor now ran towards the gate of Salentum to get it 
opened, and to acquaint Idomeneus that he might leave the 
city without fear. In the mean time, Nestor went up to Telcm- 
achus and embraced him. " My amiable young friend," said 
he, " thy father was the wisest of all the princes of Greece ; 
mayst thou be favored with equal wisdom and with better 
fortune. The similitude of your persons is great, and the re- 
membrance of Ulysses, which that has revived, contributed to 
soften our resentment." 

Phalanthus, though he was by nature fierce and unfeeling, 
and though he had never seen Ulysses, was, notwithstanding, 
touched at his misfortunes and those of his son. The chiefs, 
gathering around Telemachus, were pressing him to relate his 



TELEMACmi8. BOOK IX. 335 

adventures, when Mentor returned with Idomeneus and the 
Cretan youths .who followed in his train. 

At the sight of Idomeneus the resentment of the confederate 
nations began to revive, but Mentor extinguished the fire be- 
fore it broke out. " Why do we delay," said he, " to conclude 
this sacred alliance, which the powers of heaven shall witness 
and defend ? May the gods avenge its violation, by whomso- 
ever it shall be violated ! And may all the horrors of war, 
averted from the faithful and the innocent, descend upon the 
perjured and execrable head of him whose ambition shall dare 
to trample upon the sacred rights of this alliance ! May he be 
detested both in heaven and upon earth ; may he derive no 
advantage from his perfidy; may the infernal furies, in the 
most horrid forms, excite in his breast everlasting rage and 
despair : let him perish, without hope of burial ; let his limbs 
be the prey of vultures and of dogs : when he descends to the 
infernal regions, may the gulf of Tartarus receive him ; and 
may he there suffer severer torments than those of Tantalus, 
Ixion, and the Danaides, forever and forever ! But may this 
peace rather remain unshaken, like the mountains of Atlas that 
sustain the skies ; may it be revered by every nation upon the 
earth, and its blessings descend from generation to generation ! 
May the names of those who have made it, be held in admira- 
tion and love by our latest posterity ; let it stand as a model 
for every peace that shall be hereafter founded upon equity 
and good faith ; and let all nations that desire to secure hap- 
piness by unanimity, follow the example of the people of 
Hesperia !" 

Idomeneus and the rest of the princes then ratified the 
peace, upon the conditions that had been proposed, by an oath. 
Twelve hostages were interchanged between them. Telema- 
chus, by his own choice, was one of those given by Idomeneus ; 
but the allies would not consent that Mentor should be another, 
insisting that he should remain with Idomeneus, that he might 
answer for his conduct, and superintend his council, till his 
engagements should be perfectly fulfilled. A hundred heifers 
as white as snow, and a hundred bulls of the same color. 



836 




WORKS OF FENELON. 



having their horns gilt and adorned with garlands of flowers, 
were then sacrificed between the camp and the city. The 
bellowing of the victims that fell under the sacred knife re- 
sounded from the neighboring hills : their blood flowed in a 
smoking torrent on every side. The most exquisite wines 
were poured abundantly in libations to the gods. The arus- 
pices consulted the entrails, still panting with the remains of 
life. The priests burnt an incense upon the altar, which rose 
in a cloud of fragrance, and perfumed all the plain. 

In the mean time, the soldiers on both sides forgot that 
they had been enemies, and began to entertain each other with 
their adventures. They resigned themselves to a pleasing 
relaxation after their labors, and tasted the sweets of peace by 
anticipation. Many of those who followed Idomeneus to the 
siege of Troy, recollected the soldiers of Nestor, with whom 
they had fought in the same cause. They embraced each 
other with great affection; and mutually related all that hap- 
pened to them after they had laid the magnificent city, that 
was the glory of Asia, in ruins. They laid themselves down 
upon the grass, crowned themselves with flowers, and rejoiced 
over the wine which had been brought in large vases from the 
city, to celebrate so happy a day. 

During this scene of cheerfulness and amity, Mentor crie'd 
out, as by a sudden impulse : " Henceforth, ye kings and 
leaders, these assembled nations, although disguised by various 
names, and governed by different chiefs, shall be one people. 
Thus do the gods, who love the creatures of their power, 
delight to become the bond of union between them. What is 
the race of man, but one family widely scattered upon the 
earth ? All men by nature are brothers, and should be mu- 
tually endeared by a brother's love. Accursed be those im- 
pious barbarians who seek for glory in the kindred blood, 
which differs but in name from their own ! 

" War, indeed, is sometimes necessary ; but the necessity of 
war is the reproach of man. Let ambitious royalty no more 
pretend that war is to be desired as the means of glory. 
Nothing can be glorious that is inhuman. He that would 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK IX. 337 

acquire glory at the expense of humanity, is a monster, and 
not a man. True glory cannot be thus acquired; glory is 
nothing more than the radiance of virtue, and the virtue of a 
prince is moderation and benevolence. The incense of adu- 
lation may be offered to the vanity and the folly of a tyrant ; 
but even those who offer it confess, in the secret language of 
their heart, that glory is less deserved in proportion as it is 
dishonestly sought. He ought to be lightly esteemed of men, 
by whom men are so lightly esteemed, that, to gratify a brutal 
vanity, he will deluge the earth with their blood. Happy is 
the prince who loves his people, and is beloved by them ; who 
has confidence in his neighbors, and whose neighbors have 
confidence in him ; who is so far from making war against 
them, that he prevents their making war against each other; 
and who can excite envy in foreign States only by the happi- 
ness which he diffuses through his own ! 

" Let your assemblies, then, O ye powers of Hesperia, be 
frequent. Let all the princes that are now present, meet at 
least once in three years, to confirm the present peace by a 
reiterated vow ; to repeat your mutual promises, and deliber- 
ate upon your common interests. While you possess the 
pleasure of this delightful country, united by the bonds of 
peace, you will at home be glorious, and abroad invincible. 
Discord only, that infernal fury, who ascends from hell to tor- 
ment mankind, can interrupt the felicity which is designed for 
you by the gods." 

" Our readiness to conclude a peace," replied Nestor, " is a 
sufficient testimony that we have been far from engaging in a 
war from vain-glory, or with an unjust design of aggrandizing 
ourselves at the expense of our neighbors. But what can be 
done, when, among the princes that surround us, there is one 
who acts by no law but his own interest, and loses no oppor- 
tunity of invading the dominions of others ? Do not imagine 
that I am now speaking of Idomeneus, for to him I no 
longer impute such a character : our danger now arises only 
from Adrastus, the king of the Daunians. This tyrant despises 
the gods, and believes that all the people upon earth are born 
15 



338 WORKS OF FENELON. 

only to contribute to his glory by their servitude. He does not 
desire subjects to whom he would stand in the double relation 
of king and father ; he desires only slaves and worshippers, and 
has directed divine honors to be paid him. The blind caprice 
of fortune has hitherto prospered his undertakings. We were 
hastening to attack Salentum, that we might suppress a power 
in its infancy, likely to become formidable, aud be at liberty to 
turn our whole force against Adrastus, who is already a power- 
ful enemy. He has taken several towns from our allies, and 
has defeated the Crotonians in two battles. He scruples at 
nothing to gratify his ambition : if he can crush his enemies, 
he cares not whether it be by fraud or force. He has amassed 
great treasures ; his troops are well disciplined and inured to 
war; he has experienced officers, and is well served; he 
superintends himself whatever is done by his orders. He 
severely punishes the least fault, and rewards services with great 
liberality. He sustains and animates his troops by his own 
courage. If his conduct were regulated by equity and good 
faith, he would be a most accomplished prince ; but he fears 
neither the vengeance of the gods nor the reproaches of con- 
science. He considers reputation itself as a mere phantom, 
by which weak minds only can be influenced. In his estima- 
tion, there is no real and substantial good but the possession 
of great riches, the power of inspiring terror, and of tramp- 
ling mankind under foot. His army will very soon enter our' 
dominions ; and if we cannot acquire strength to resist him 
by a general confederacy, all hope of liberty must cease for- 
ever. It is not less the interest of Idomeneus than of the 
other princes to oppose this tyrant, who will suffer nothing to 
be free that his power can enslave. If we should be van* 
quished, Salentum would fall with us ; let us, therefore, unite 
for our common defence without delay." 

While Nestor was thus speaking they advanced towards the 
city, for Idomeneus had invited all the kings and principal offi- 
cers to pass the night within the walls. 



BOOK X. 

Nestor, in the name of the allies, demands succors of Idomeneus against 
their enemies the Daunians. Mentor, who is desirous to establish proper 
regulations for the internal government of Salentum, and to employ the 
people in agriculture, finds means to satisfy them with a hundred noble 
Cretans, under the command of Telemachus. After their departure, 
Mentor proceeds to a minute examination of the city and the port ; and, 
having acquainted himself with every particular, he prevails upon Idom- 
eneus to institute new principles of government and commerce, — to 
divide his people into seven classes, distinguishing them with respect to 
their rank and quality by different habits, — to retrench luxury and unne- 
cessary arts, and to employ the artificers in husbandry, which he brings 
into just reputation. 

The allies had now pitched their tents, and the field was 
covered with rich pavilions of all colors, in which the weary 
Hesperians resigned themselves to sleep. In the mean time, 
the princes and their retinue, having entered the city, were 
struck with astonishment to see so many magnificent buildings, 
which had risen in so short a time, — a city of which so formida- 
ble a war had retarded neither the growth nor the decoration. 

They admired the wisdom and vigilance of Idomeneus, who 
had founded so splendid a kingdom ; and concluding that the 
confederacy against -the Daunians would acquire great strength 
by the accession of such an ally, they invited him to come into 
it. Idomeneus thought it reasonable to comply, and promised 
them troops. 

But as Mentor was perfectly acquainted with all that was 
necessary to render a kingdom flourishing, he had reason to 
believe that the power of Idomeneus was not so great in reality 
as in appearance ; he therefore took him aside, and addressed 
him to this effect : 

" You see that our endeavors have not been unsuccessful ; 



340 WORKS OF FENELON. 

we have secured Salentum from destruction, but you only can 
raise her to glory. The government of the people depends 
upon you, and it is your task to emulate the wisdom of Minos, 
and show that you are worthy of your descent. I continue to 
speak freely to you, supposing that you love truth and despise 
flattery. While these princes were praising your magnificence, 
I could but reflect in silence upon your temerity." 

At the word temerity, Idomeneus changed countenance ; his 
eyes sparkled, his cheeks glowed, and he was upon the point 
of interrupting Mentor by expressions of resentment. " I see," 
said Mentor, in a voice that was modest and respectful, though 
not faltering or irresolute, " that the word temerity has given 
you offence, and I confess, that if it had been used by any other 
than myself, your displeasure would have been just ; for there 
is a respect due to kings; and they have a jealous sensibility, 
which even those who reprove them should be careful not to 
wound. To them the voice of truth is sufficiently displeasing, 
however gentle the terms ; but I hoped that you would permit 
me to speak of your faults without a studied softness of expres- 
sion; that you w T ould indulge me in my design of accustoming 
you to hear things called by their names, and of teaching you 
to discover what others think, when their respect suppresses 
their thoughts. If you would not resign yourself to voluntary 
deception, you must always understand more than is said, when 
the subject is to your disadvantage. As to myself, I am ready 
to soften my expressions, if they must be softened ; but it 
would surely be useful for you, that a man absolutely neutral 
in your affairs, without interest, connection, or dependence, 
should, when he speaks to you in private, speak plain. No 
other will ever dare to do it ; you will be condemned to see 
truth imperfectly ; you will be a stranger to her face, for she 
will never appear before you but in a gaudy veil." 

Idomeneus, whose first impatience had already subsided, 
began now to be ashamed of his weakness. " You see," said 
he to Mentor, " what constant flattery will do. I owe to you 
the preservation of my new kingdom, and there is no truth 
that I shall not think myself happy to hear from your lips. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X. 341 

Eemember, with pity, that I have been long tainted with the 
poison of adulation ; and that, even in my misfortunes, I was a 
stranger to truth. Alas ! no man has ever loved me enough 
to say what he thought I should be displeased to hear." 

The heart of Idomeneus melted as he spoke, the tears started 
to his eyes, and he embraced Mentor with great tenderness. 
" It is with the utmost regret," said Mentor, " that I give you 
pain ; but I am constrained ; I cannot betray you by conceal- 
ing truth. Could you act otherwise in my place ? If you have 
always been deceived till now, it was because you chose to be 
deceived ; it was because you feared to find sincerity in those 
that were to give you counsel. Have you sought those who 
were most disinterested, those who were most likely to contra- 
dict you ? Have you preferred such as were least devoted to 
your pleasure, and their own interest ; such as appeared most 
capable of opposing your passions when they were irregular, 
and your sentiments when they were unjust ? When you have 
detected a flatterer, have you banished him from your presence ? 
Have you withdrawn your confidence from those whom you 
suspected ? You have not done what those do who love truth, 
and deserve to know it. Let us now see whether you have the 
fortitude to suffer the humiliation of hearing those truths by 
which you are condemned. 

" I must again tell you, that what has gained you so much 
praise deserves censure. "While you are surrounded with ene- 
mies, and yet a foreigner in the country, you dream only of 
adorning your new city with magnificent buildings. To this 
end, as you have confessed to me, you have sacrificed your 
repose and exhausted your wealth. You have thought neither 
of augmenting your people, nor of cultivating the country. 
Does not your power depend wholly upon a numerous people, 
and a country highly cultivated for their subsistence ? A long 
peace is necessary, at the first establishment of a State, for 
increasing the people. You ought, at present, to think of 
nothing but agriculture and legislation. You have been hur- 
ried, by a vain ambition, to the brink of a precipice. To gain 
the appearance of being great, you have sapped the foundation 



342 WORKS OF FENELON. 

of substantial grandeur. Let these errors be corrected without 
delay ; suspend all these works of idle magnificence ; renounce 
the pomp that will reduce your new city to ruins ; release your 
people from fatigue, and endeavor to facilitate marriage, by 
procuring them plenty. Remember that you are a king only 
in proportion as you have subjects to govern, and that the 
measure of your power is not the extent of your dominions, 
but the number of their inhabitants. Let your territory be 
fertile, however small, and let it swarm with people at once 
well disciplined and industrious; and if you can make these peo- 
ple love you, you will be more powerful, more happy, and more 
glorious, than all the conquerors that have ravaged the earth." 

" What shall I do then," said Idomeneus, " with respect to 
the princes that have solicited me to join the confederacy ? 
Shall I confess to them the weakness of my State? It is, 
indeed, true, that I have neglected agriculture and even com- 
merce, notwithstanding the uncommon advantages of my situa- 
tion. I have thought only of making a magnificent city. But 
must I, then, my dear Mentor, dishonor myself in the presence 
of so many kings, by acknowledging my indiscretion ? If it 
must be done, I will do it, and do it readily, whatever mortifi- 
cation I may suffer ; for you have taught me that a king is 
born for his people, owes himself wholly to them, and ought 
always to prefer the public welfare to his own reputation." 

" This sentiment," said Mentor, " is worthy the father of his 
people ; for this, and not for the vain magnificence of your 
city, I regard you as a king deserving the name. But your 
honor must be preserved, even for the advantage of your State. 
Leave this to me ; I will make these princes believe that you 
are engaged to establish Ulysses, if he is yet living, or his son 
if he is dead, in the government of his kingdom, and drive the 
suitors of Penelope from Ithaca by force. They will at once 
perceive that this cannot be effected without numerous troops ; 
and will, therefore, readily consent that you shall at first afford 
them but a slight assistance against the Daunians." 

At these words, Idomeneus appeared like a man suddenly 
relieved from a burden that was crushing him by its weight. 



TELEMACHUS.- -BOOK X. 343 

" This, indeed," said he, " my dear Meiitor, will preserve my 
reputation, and the honor of this rising city, by hiding its 
weakness from the neighboring States. But with what ap- 
pearance of truth can it be pretended that I am about to send 
troops to Ithaca, for the establishment of Ulysses, or at least 
of Telemachus, while Telemachus himself is engaged in war 
against the Daunians ?" 

"Be in no pain about that," replied Mentor; "I will say 
nothing that is false. The vessels that you are fitting out to 
establish your commerce, will sail to the coast of Epirus, and 
will effect two purposes at once : they will bring back the for 
eign merchants whom high duties have driven from Salentum, 
and they will seek intelligence of Ulysses. If he is still living, 
he cannot be far from the seas that divide Greece from Italy, 
and it has been confidently reported that he has been seen 
among the Pheacians. But if Ulysses should not be found, 
your vessels will render an important service to his son ; they 
will spread terror, with the name of Telemachus, through all 
Ithaca and the neighboring country, where it is now believed 
that he is dead as well as his father. The suitors of Penelope 
will be struck with astonishment to learn that he is returning 
with the forces of a powerful ally. The Ithacans will be awed 
into obedience. Penelope will be encouraged to persist in her 
refusal of a second husband. Thus will you render service to 
Telemachus, while he is rendering service to you by taking 
your place in the confederacy against the Daunians." 

" Happy is the king," said Idomeneus, " that is favored with 
such counsel ; but doubly happy is he who feels its importance, 
and improves it to his advantage ! A wise and faithful friend 
is better than a victorious army ; yet kings too often withdraw 
their confidence from the faithful and the wise, of whose virtue 
they stand in awe, and resign themselves to flatterers, of whose 
perfidy they have no dread. I fell myself into that fatal error, 
and I will relate to you the misfortunes that I drew upon my- 
self by a connection with a false friend, who flattered my 
passions in hopes that, in my turn, I should gratify his." 

Mentor found it easy to convince the allies that Idomeneus 



344: WORKS OF FENELON. 

ought to take charge of the affairs of Telemachus, while Telem- 
achus was, on his behalf, engaged in his confederacy, They 
were well satisfied to have among them the son of the great 
Ulysses, with a hundred Cretan youths whom Idomeneus had 
put under his command. These young men were the flower 
of the nobility, whom Idomeneus had brought from their 
native country, and whom Mentor had advised him to send in 
this expedition. "It is necessary," said he, "to increase the 
number of your people during peace ; but, to prevent a national 
insensibility to military honor, and ignorance of military art, it 
is proper to send the young nobility into foreign service. This, 
by connecting the idea of a soldier's character with that of 
noble descent and elevated rank, will be sufficient to kindle 
and keep alive a national sense of glory, a love of arms, a 
patience of fatigue, a contempt of death, and even an experi- 
mental knowledge of the art of war." 

The confederate princes departed from Salentum, well con- 
tent with Idomeneus, and charmed with the wisdom of Mentor. 
They were also highly pleased to be accompanied by Telema- 
chus. But Telemachus was overwhelmed with grief when he 
came to part with his friend. While the kings were taking 
their leave of Idomeneus, and vowing to preserve their alliance 
inviolable forever, Mentor held Telemachus to his breast in a 
transport of silent tenderness, and found himself bedewed with 
his tears. " I have no joy," said Telemachus, " in the search 
of glory; I feel no passion but grief at our separation. It 
seems to me that I see the return of the unhappy hour when 
the Egyptians forced me from your arms to a distant country, 
leaving me no hope of seeing you again." 

Mentor soothed him with words of gentleness and comfort. 
"This separation," said he, "is very different from that in 
Egypt ; it is voluntary, it will be short, and it will be rewarded 
with glory. You must love me, my son, with less tenderness 
and more fortitude : you must accustom yourself to my absence, 
for the time is coming when we must part forever : you should 
learn what is right, rather from the inspiration of wisdom and 
of virtue, than from the presence of Mentor." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X. 345 

The goddess, who was concealed under the figure of Mentor, 
then covered Telemachus with her aegis, and diffused within 
him the spirit of wisdom and foresight, of intrepid courage and 
gentle moderation, — virtues which so rarely meet. 

" Go," said she, " wherever you are called by duty, without 
considering whether it be dangerous or safe. A prince may 
avoid danger, with less disgrace, by declining a war, than by 
keeping aloof in battle. The courage of him who commands 
others, should never be doubtful. If it is desirable that a 
nation should preserve its prince, it is still more desirable that 
the prince should preserve his honor. Remember that the 
commander of others should also be their example, and excite 
the courage of his army by a display of his own. Fear no 
danger, then, O Telemachus, but rather perish in the combat 
than bring your valor into question. The sycophants who 
would appear most forward in persuading you not to expose 
yourself to danger, when danger is necessary, would be the 
first to whisper that you wanted courage if you should take 
their advice. 

" Do not, however, incur danger unnecessarily. Courage is 
a virtue only in proportion as it is directed by prudence. 
Without prudence, it is a senseless contempt of life, a mere 
brutal ardor. Precipitate courage secures no advantage. He 
who, in danger, does not retain his self-possession, is rather 
furious than brave: he is superior to fear only as he is incapa- 
ble of thought : in proportion as he is free from perturbation, 
he is timid ; and if he does not fly, he is in confusion : his 
mind is not at liberty to dispense proper orders, nor to seize 
and improve the transient but important opportunities, which 
arise in battle, of distressing the enemy and doing service to 
his country. If he has the ardor of a soldier, he has not the 
discernment of a commander. Neither has he that courage 
which is requisite in the private ; for the private ought to pre- 
serve, in the heat of action, such presence of mind as is neces- 
sary to understand and obey the orders of his officer. He 
that exposes himself rashly interrupts the order and discipline 
of the troops, gives an example of pernicious temerity, and 

15* 



346 WORKS OF FENELON. 

frequently exposes the whole army to irretrievable disadvan- 
tages. Those who prefer the gratification of their own idle 
ambition to the security of a common cause, deserve rather 
punishment than reward. 

" Be careful, my dear son, to avoid precipitation even in the 
pursuit of glory ; for glory is to be acquired only by waiting 
in patient tranquillity for the moment of advantage. Virtue is 
more revered in proportion as she appears to be quiet, placid, 
and unassuming. As the necessity of exposing youiself to 
danger increases, so should your expedients, your foresight, 
and your courage. Remember, also, to avoid whatever may 
draw upon you the envy of your associates, and never let the 
success of another excite envy in you. Give praise liberally 
for whatever shall merit praise, but never praise indiscrimi- 
nately : display the good with pleasure, hide the bad, and let it 
not be remembered but with compassion. 

"Never decide in the presence of old commanders, who have 
all the experience that you want : hear their opinions with 
deference, consult them, solicit the assistance of the most 
skilful, and never be ashamed to attribute your best actions to 
their counsel. Lastly, never listen to any discourse which 
tends to make you jealous or mistrustful of other chiefs. 
Speak your mind to them with confidence and ingenuity. If 
you think their behavior to you has been exceptionable, open 
your heart at once, and tell them why you think so. If they 
are capable of feeling the noble generosity of this conduct, 
they will be delighted with it, and you will find no difficulty in 
obtaining from them all the concessions that you can reason- 
ably expect. If their insensibility is so gross that the rectitude 
of this behavior is lost upon them, you will, at least, have 
gained an experimental knowledge of what may be expected 
from them ; you will order matters so that you may have no 
more contest with them during the war, and you will have 
nothing to reproach yourself with on their account. But, 
above all, be careful never to drop the least hint of your dis- 
pleasure before the sycophants who are ever busy to sow jeal- 
ousy and division. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOB: X. 347 

" I will remain here," continued Mentor, " to assist Idome- 
neus in taking those measures which are indispensably neces- 
sary for the good of his people, and for completing the correc- 
tion of those faults which evil counsellors and flatterers have 
seduced him to commit, in the establishment of his new king-, 
dom." 

Telemachus could not help expressing some surprise, and 
even some contempt, at the conduct of Idomeneus. But 
Mentor checked him in a tone of severity. " Do you wonder," 
said he, " that the most estimable of men are men still, and, 
among the innumerable snares ' and perplexities which are 
inseparable from royalty, show some traces of human infirmity? 
In Idomeneus, the ideas of pomp and magnificence have been 
planted and nurtured from his youth, and where is the philos- 
opher, who, in his place, would always have been superior to 
flattery ? He has, indeed, suffered himself to be too much 
influenced by those in whom he confided, but the wisest kings, 
whatever is their precaution, are often deceived. A king can- 
not do every thing himself; he must therefore have ministers, 
and in these ministers he must confide. Besides, a king can- 
not know those that surround him so well as they are known 
by others ; for in his presence they never appear without a 
mask, and every artifice that cunning can devise is practised 
to deceive him. Alas, my dear Telemachus, your own experi- 
ence will confirm this truth but too well. We never find either 
the virtues or abilities in mankind that we seek. With what- 
ever diligence and penetration we study their characters, we are 
every day mistaken in our conclusions. We can never avail 
ourselves, for the public good, of all the virtues and abilities 
that we find ; for the best men have their prejudices, their 
aversions, and their jealousies ; they will seldom give up any 
opinion, however singular, or renounce any foible, however 
pernicious. 

" The greater the dominion, the more numerous must be the 
ministry ; for there will be more that the prince cannot do 
himself, and, therefore, more that he must do by others ; and 
the greater the number of those to whom he must delegate his 



34:8 WORKS OF FENELON. 

authority, the more liable he is to be somewhere mistaken m 
his choice. He who is a severe censor of kings to-day, would 
to-morrow govern much worse than those whom he condemns ; 
and, if he were intrusted with the same power, he would com- 
,mit the same faults, and many others much greater. A pri- 
vate station, if a man has some degree of natural eloquence, 
conceals defects, displays shining talents to advantage, and 
makes him appear worthy of all the posts that he does not fill. 
But authority brings a man's abilities to a severe test, and dis- 
covers great faults which the shades of obscurity concealed. 

" Greatness resembles those glasses ' which represent every 
object larger than it is. Every defect seems to expand in an 
elevated situation, where things, in themselves small, are, in 
their consequences, great, and the slightest faults excite vehe- 
ment opposition. A prince is an individual whose conduct the 
whole world is perpetually employed to watch, and disposed to 
condemn. He is judged with the utmost rigor by those who 
can only guess at his situation, who have not the least sense 
of the difficulties that attend it, and who expect that, to answer 
their ideas of perfection, he should be no longer a man. A 
king, however, can be no more ; his goodness and his wisdom 
are bounded by his human nature. He has humors, passions, 
and habits, which it is impossible he should always surmount. 
He is continually beset by self-interest and cunning ; he never 
finds the assistance that he seeks. He is perpetualh 7 led into 
mistakes, sometimes by his own passions, and sometimes by 
those of his ministers. He can scarcely repair one fault before 
he falls into another. Such is the situation even of those kings 
who have most wisdom and most virtue. 

" The longest and best reign is too short, and too defective, 
to correct, at the end, what has undesignedly been done amiss 
in the beginning. Such evils are inseparable from royalty, 
and human weakness must sink under such a load. Kings 
should be pitied and excused. Should not they be pitied who 
are called to the government of an innumerable multitude, 

1 The anachronism is obvious, and without excuse. 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK X. 349 

whose wants are infinite, and who cannot but keep every 
faculty of those who would govern them well upon the 
stretch? Or, to speak freely, are not men to be pitied for 
their necessary subjection to a mortal like themselves? A 
god only can fulfil the duties of dominion. The prince, how- 
ever, is not less to be pitied than the people, — a weak and 
imperfect creature, the governor of a corrupt and deceitful 
multitude !" 

"But," said Telemachus, with vivacity, "Idomeneus has 
already lost Crete, the kingdom of his ancestors, by his indis- 
cretion ; and he would have lost Salentum, which he is found- 
ing in its stead, if it had not been preserved by your wisdom." 

"I confess," replied Mentor, "that Idomeneus has been 
guilty of great fauHs; but, look through Greece, and every 
other country upon earth, and see whether among those that 
are most improved, you can find one prince that is not, in 
many instances, inexcusable. The greatest men have, in their 
natural disposition, and in the constitutional character of their 
minds, defects which naturally mislead them ; and the best 
men are those who have the courage to acknowledge these 
defects and repair the mischiefs that they produce. Do you 
imagine that Ulysses, the great Ulysses your father, who is 
considered as an example by all the sovereigns of Greece, is 
without weakness and imperfection? If he had not been 
favored with the perpetual guidance and protection of Mi- 
nerva, how often would he have sunk under the dangers to 
which the wanton malignity of fortune has exposed him ! 
How often has the goddess restrained and corrected him, that 
he might walk on in the path of virtue till he arrived at glory ! 
And when you shall see him reigning in all the splendor of 
his excellence in Ithaca, do not expect to find him perfect. 
He has been the admiration of Greece, of Asia, and of all the 
islands of the sea, notwithstanding his failings, which, among 
the shining wonders of his character, are forgotten. If you, 
also, can thus admire him, and, by a happy emulation of his 
wisdom and virtue, transplant them into your own bosom, you 
will need no other happiness or honor. 



350 WORKS OF FENELON. 

" Accustom yourself not to expect, from the greatest men, 
more than human nature can effect. It is common for the 
inexperience and presumption of youth to indulge a severity 
of judgment, which leads it to condemn the characters that it 
ought to imitate, and produces a hopeless indocility. You 
ought not only to love, respect, and imitate your father, not- 
withstanding his imperfections, but you ought also very highly 
to esteem Idomeneus, notwithstanding such parts of his char- 
acter and conduct as I have shown to deserve censure. He is 
naturally sincere, upright, equitable, kind, and magnificent; 
his courage is perfect ; he detests fraud the moment he per- 
ceives it. All his external qualifications are great, and suita- 
ble to his rank. His ingenuous disposition to acknowledge 
his errors, his mild and patient endurance of my severe repre- 
hension, his fortitude against himself, to make public repara- 
tion for his faults, and thus to place himself above the censure 
of others, are indubitable testimonies that he has true great- 
ness of mind. There are some faults from which a man of lit- 
tle merit may be preserved, by good fortune or by good coun- 
sel ; but it is only by an effort of the most exalted virtue that 
a king, who has been so long seduced by flattery, can correct 
his faults. It is more glorious thus to rise than never to have 
fallen. 

" The faults of Idomeneus are such as almost all kings have 
committed, but his reparation is such as has been made by 
none. As for myself, while I reproved I admired him; for he 
permitted my reproof. Do you admire him also, my dear 
Telemachus : it is less for his reputation than your advantage, 
that I give you this counsel." 

By this discourse Mentor made Telemachus sensible, that 
he who judges with severity of others endangers his own vir- 
tue, especially if they are burdened by the perplexities and 
difficulties of government. " B«t it is now," said he, " time to 
part. Farewell ! I will wait here, my dear Telemachus, for your 
return. Remember, that those who fear the gods have nothing 
to fear from men. You will be exposed to extreme danger, 
but remember that you will never be forsaken by Minerva." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X. 351 

At this moment Telemachus became conscious of the pres- 
ence of the goddess, and he would have known that it was 
the very voice of Minerva that had inspired him with fortitude, 
if she had not immediately recalled the image of Mentor to his 
mind, by .addressing him in the character she had assumed. 
" Remember," said she, " my son, the care which I took, dur- 
ing your infancy, to render you as wise and as brave as your 
father. Do nothing that is unworthy of his example, or of my 
precepts." 

The sun had already risen, and was tinging the summit of 
the mountains with gold, when the confederate kings departed 
from Salentum to return to their troops. These troops, that 
had been encamped round the city, began to march under 
their leaders. Their pikes rose like a forest on every side, 
their shields glittered in the sun, and a cloud of dust ascended 
to the sky. The kings were conducted to the plain by Idom- 
eneus and Mentor, who attended them to a considerable dis- 
tance from the city. At last they parted, having given and 
received reciprocal testimonies of sincere friendship. And the 
allies, being now acquainted with the true character of Idom- 
eneus, which had suffered so much by misrepresentation, had 
no doubt that the peace would be lasting ; they had, indeed, 
formed their judgment of him, not from his natural sentiments, 
but from the pernicious counsel of flatterers which he had im- 
plicitly taken. 

When the army was gone, Idomeneus led Mentor into every 
quarter of the city. " Let us see," said Mentor, " how many 
people you have, as well in the city as in the country ; let us 
number the whole. Let us also examine how many of them 
are husbandmen. Let us inquire how much corn, wine, oil, 
and other necessaries, your lands will produce one year with 
another; we shall then know whether it will yield a surplus 
for foreign trade. Let us also see how many vessels you have, 
and how many sailors to man them, that we may be able to 
iudge of your strength." He then visited the port, and went 
on board every vessel. He informed himself of the several 
port's to which they traded — what merchandise they carried 



352 WORKS OF FENELON. 

out, and what they brought back in return — what was the 
expense of the voyage — what were the loans of the merchants 
to each other — and what trading societies were established 
among them, that he might know whether their articles were 
equitable and faithfully observed — finally, what was the risk 
of the several voyages, and to what losses the trade was ex- 
posed, that such restrictions might be made as would prevent 
the ruin of the merchants, who sometimes, from too eager a 
desire of gain, undertook what they were not in a condition to 
accomplish. 

He ordered that bankruptcy should be punished with great 
severity, because it is generally the effect of rashness and in- 
discretion, if not of fraud. He also formed regulations by 
which bankruptcies might easily be prevented. He obliged 
the merchants to give an account of their effects, their profits, 
their expenses, and their undertakings, to magistrates estab- 
lished for this purpose. He ordered that they should never be 
permitted to risk the property of another, nor more than half 
their own ; that they should undertake, by association, what 
they could not undertake singly, and that the observance of 
the conditions of such association should be enforced by severe 
penalties. He ordered also that trade should be perfectly open 
and free ; and, instead of loading it with imposts, that every 
merchant who brought the trade of a new nation to the port of 
Salentum should be entitled to a reward. 

These regulations brought people in crowds from all parts. 
The trade of Salentum was like the flux and reflux of the sea. 
Riches flowed in upon it with an impetuous abundance, like 
waves impelling waves. Every thing was freely brought in 
and carried out of the port. Every thing that was brought 
was useful, and every thing that was carried out left something 
of greater advantage in its stead. Justice presided over the 
port, which was the centre of innumerable nations, with inflex- 
ible severity. From the lofty towers, that were at once its 
ornament and defence, freedom, integrity, and honor seemed 
to call together the merchants of the remotest regions of the 
earth; and these merchants, whether they came from the 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK X. 353 

shores of the east, where the sun rises from the parting wave 
to begin the day, or from that boundless ocean where, wearied 
with his course, he extinguishes his fires — all lived together in 
Salentum, as in their native country, with security and peace. 

Mentor then visited the magazines, warehouses, and manu- 
factories of the interior part of the city. He prohibited the 
sale of all foreign commodities that might introduce luxury or 
effeminacy. He regulated the dress and the provisions of the 
inhabitants of every rank, and the furniture, the size, and 
ornaments of their houses. He also prohibited all ornaments 
of silver and gold. " I know but one thing," said he to Idome- 
neus, " that can render your people modest in their expenses — 
the example of their prince. It is necessary that there should 
be a certain dignity in your appearance, but your authority 
will be sufficiently marked by the guards, and the great officers 
of your court, that will always attend you. As to your dress, 
be contented with the finest cloth of a purple color ; let the 
dress of your principal officers be of cloth equally fine ; and let 
your own be distinguished only by the color, and a slight 
embroidery of gold round the edge. Different colors will 
serve to distinguish different conditions, without either gold, 
or silver, or jewels ; and let these conditions be regulated by 
birth. 

" Put the most ancient and illustrious nobility in the first 
rank. Those who are distinguished by personal merit, and by 
the authority of office, will be contented to stand second to 
those who have been long in possession of hereditary honor. 
Men who are not noble by descent, will readily yield prece- 
dence to those that are, if you take care not to encourage a 
false opinion of themselves by raising them too suddenly and 
too high, and if you never fail to gratify those with praise 
who are modest in prosperity. No distinction so little ex- 
cites envy as that which is derived from, ancestors by a long 
descent. 

" To stimulate virtue, and excite an emulation to serve the 
State, it will be sufficient to reward public merit with honorary 
distinctions — crowns or statues, which may be made the foun- 



354 WORKS OF FENELOtf. 

dation of a new nobility, for the children of those to whom 
they are decreed. 

" The habit of persons of the first rank may be white, bor- 
dered with a fringe of gold. They may also be distinguished 
by a gold ring on their finger, and a medal of gold impressed 
with your image hanging from their neck. Those of the 
second rank may be dressed in blue, with a silver fringe, and 
be distinguished by the ring without the medal. The third 
rank may be dressed in green, and wear the medal without 
either fringe or ring. The color of the fourth class may be a 
full yellow ; of the fifth, a pale red ; of the sixth, a mixture of 
red and white ; of the seventh, a mixture of white and yellow. 

" Dresses of these different colors will sufficiently distinguish 
the freemen of your State into seven classes. The habit of 
slaves should be dark gray. 1 Thus each will be distinguished 
according to his condition, without expense, and every art 
which can only gratify pride will be banished from Salentum. 
All the artificers which are now employed so much to the dis- 
advantage of their country will betake themselves to such arts 
as are useful, which are few, or to commerce or agriculture. 
No change must ever be suffered to take place either in the 
quality of the stuff or the form of the garment ; men are, by 
nature, formed for serious and important employments, and it 
is unworthy of them to invent affected novelties in the clothes 
that cover them, or suffer the women, whom such employment 1 
would less disgrace, to fall into an extravagance contemptible 
and pernicious." 

Thus Mentor, like a skilful gardener who lops from his fruit- 
trees the useless wood, endeavored to retrench the parade that 
insensibly corrupts the manners, and to reduce every thing to 
a frugal and noble simplicity. He regulated even the provis- 
ions, not of the slaves only, but those of the highest rank. 
" What a shame is it," said he, " that men of exalted stations 
should place their superiority in eating such food as effeminates 

1 Nothing but the dignity of verse and the grace of measure could give 
any charm to these details. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X. 355 

the mind, and subverts the constitution ! They ought to value 
themselves for the regulation of their own desires, for their 
power of dispensing good to others, and for the reputation 
which the exercise of private and public virtue will necessarily 
procure- To the sober and temperate the simplest food is 
always pleasant ; and the simplest food only can produce the 
most vigorous health, and give at once capacity and disposition 
for the purest and the highest enjoyments. Your meal should 
consist of the best food ; but it should always be plainly 
dressed. The art of cookery is the art of poisoning mankind, 
by rendering the appetite still importunate, when the wants of 
nature are supplied." 

Idomeneus easily conceived that he had done wrong in suf- 
fering the inhabitants of this new^city to corrupt and effemi- 
nate their manners by violating the sumptuary laws of Minos ; 
but Mentor further convinced him that the revival of those 
laws would produce little effect, if the king did not give them 
force by his example. He therefore immediately regulated 
his own table, where he admitted only plain food, such as he 
had eaten with other Grecian princes at the siege of Troy, with 
the finest bread, and a small quantity of the wine of the coun- 
try, which was generous and well-flavored. No man dared to 
murmur at a regulation which the king imposed upon himself, 
and the profusion and false delicacy of the table were given up 
without a struggle. 

Mentor suppressed also two kinds of music, — the soft and 
effeminate strains which dissolve the soul into languishment 
and desire, and the Bacchanalian airs that transport it with 
causeless, tumultuous, and opprobrious joy. He allowed only 
that sacred and solemn harmony, which, in the temples of the 
gods, kindles devotion, and celebrates heroic virtue. To the 
temples also he confined the superb ornaments of architecture, 
columns, pediments, and porticos : he gave models, in a simple 
but elegant style of building, for houses, that would contain a 
numerous family, on a moderate extent of ground, so designed' 
that they should be at once pleasant and convenient ; that they 
should have a healthful aspect, and apartments sufficiently 



356 WORKS OF FENELON. 

separated from each other that order and decency might easily 
be preserved, and that they might be maintained at a small 
expense. 

He ordered that every house above the middling class should 
have a hall and a small peristyle, with separate chambers for 
all the free persons of the family. But he prohibted, under 
severe penalties, the superfluous number and magnificence of 
apartments that ostentation and luxury had introduced. Houses 
erected upon these models, according to the size of the family, 
served to embellish one part of the city at a small expense, and 
gave it a regular appearance ; while the other part, which was 
already finished according to the caprice and vanity of individ- 
uals, was, notwithstanding its magnificence, less pleasing and 
convenient. This city was built in a very short time, because 
the neighboring coast of Greece furnished very skilful architects, 
and a great number of masons repaired thither from Epirus, 
and other countries, upon the promise, that after they had fin- 
ished their work, they should be established in the neighbor- 
hood of Salentum, where land should be granted them to clear, 
and where they would contribute to people the country. 

Painting and sculpture were arts which Mentor thought 
should by no means be proscribed ; but he permitted the prac- 
tice of them to few. He established a school under masters of 
exquisite taste, by whom the performances of the pupils were 
examined. "There should be no mediocrity," he said, "in the 
arts which are not necessary to life. Consequently, no youths 
shall be permitted to practise them, but such as have a genius 
to excel. Others were designed by nature for less noble occu- 
pations, and may be very usefully employed in supplying the 
ordinary wants of the community. Sculptors and painters 
should be employed only to preserve the memory of great men 
and great actions. The representations of whatever has been 
achieved by heroic virtue, for the service of the public, should 
be preserved only in public buildings, or on the monuments of 
the dead." 

But whatever was the moderation or the frugality of Mentor, 
he indulged the taste of magnificence in the great buildings 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK X. 357 

that were intended for public sports, the races of horses and 
chariots, combats with the cestus, wrestling, and all other exer- 
cises which render the body more agile and vigorous. 

He suppressed a great number of traders that sold wrought 
stuffs of foreign manufacture — embroidery of an excessive 
price — vases of silver and gold, embossed with various figures 
in bass-relief — distilled liquors and perfumes. He ordered, also, 
that the furniture of every house should be plain and substan- 
tial, so as not soon to wear out. The people of Salentum, 
therefore, who had been used to complain of being poor, began 
to perceive that they abounded in superfluous riches, but that 
this superfluity was of a deceitful kind ; that they were poor in 
proportion as they possessed it, and that only in proportion as 
they relinquished it, could they be rich. " To become truly 
rich," said they, " is to despise such riches as exhaust the State, 
and to lessen the number of our wants by reducing them to 
the necessities of nature." 

Mentor also took the first opportunity to visit the arsenals 
and magazines, and examine whether the arms and other 
necessaries of war were in a good condition. " To be always 
ready for war," said he, "is the surest way to avoid it." He 
found many things wanting, and immediately employed artifi- 
cers in brass and iron to supply the defects. Furnaces were 
immediately built, and smoke and flames ascended in cloudy 
volumes, like those that issue from the subterranean fires of 
Mount iEtna. The hammer rang upon the anvil, which groaned 
under the stroke ; the neighboring shores and mountains re- 
echoed to the sound ; and a spectator of these preparations for 
war, made by a provident sagacity during a profound peace, 
might have thought himself in that island where Vulcan ani- 
mates the Cyclops, by his example, to forge thunder for the 
father of the gods. 

Mentor then went with Idomeneus out of the city, and found 
a great extent of fertile country wholly uncultivated, besides 
considerable tracts that were cultivated but in part, through the 
negligence or poverty of the husbandmen, through the want of 
spirit or the want of hands. " This country," said he to the 



358 WORKS OF FENELON. 

king, " is ready to enrich its inhabitants, but the inhabitants 
are not sufficient to cultivate the country. Let us, then, remove 
the superfluous artificers from the city, whose professions serve 
only to corrupt the manners of the people, and let us employ 
them in fertilizing those plains and hills. It is a misfortune 
that these men, having been employed in arts which require a 
sedentary life, are unused to labor ; but we will try to remedy 
this evil ; we will divide these uncultivated lands into lots 
among them, and call in the neighboring people to their assist- 
ance, who will gladly undertake the most laborious part of the 
work, upon condition that they should receive a certain portion 
of the produce of the lands they clear. They may afterwards 
be made proprietors of part of it, and be thus incorporated with 
your people, who are by no means sufficiently numerous. If 
they prove diligent and obedient to the laws, they will be good 
subjects and increase your power. The artisans, whom you 
shall transplant from the city to the fields, will bring up their 
children to the labors of rural life. Moreover, the foreigners, 
whom you have employed to assist in building your city, have 
engaged to clear part of your lands, and become husbandmen. 
These men, as soon as they have finished the public buildings, 
you should incorporate with your people. They will think 
themselves happy to pass their lives under a government so 
gentle as that which you have now established. As they are 
robust and laborious, their example will animate the trans- 
planted artificers with whom they will be mixed, and in a short 
time your country will abound with a vigorous race, wholly 
devoted to agriculture. 

" When this is done, be in no pain about the multiplication 
of your people ; they will, in a short time, become innumer- 
able, if you facilitate marriage. The most simple way of 
facilitating marriage is the most effectual. All men are natu- 
rally inclined to marry, and nothing prevents them from in- 
dulging this inclination but the prospect of difficulty and 
distress. If you do not load them with taxes, their families 
will never become a burden ; for the earth is never ungrateful, 
but always affords sustenance to those who diligently cultivate 



TKLEMACHTJS. BOOK X. 359 

it ; it refuses its bounty only to those who refuse their labor. 
Husbandmen are always rich in proportion to the number of 
their children, if their prince does not make them poor ; for 
the children afford them some assistance, even from their in- 
fancy. The youngest can drive the flock to pasture, those 
that are further advanced can look after the cattle, and those 
of the third stage can work with their father in the field. In 
the mean time the girls assist the mother, who prepares a 
simple but wholesome repast for those that are abroad, when 
they return home fatigued with the labor of the day. She milks 
her cows and her ewes; she brings out her little stores, her 
cheeses, and her chestnuts, with fruits that she has preserved 
from decay ; she piles up the social fire, and the family gathers 
round it ; every countenance brightens with the smile of inno- 
cence and peace, and some rural ditty diverts them till the 
night calls them to rest. 

" The shepherd returns with his pipe, and to the assembled 
family sings some new song that he has learnt at the neighbor- 
ing village. Those that have been at work in the fields come 
in with the plough and the weary oxen, that hang down their 
heads, and move with a slow and heavy pace, notwithstanding 
the goad, which now urges them in vain. All the sufferings 
of labor end with the day ; the poppies which, at the com- 
mand of the gods, are scattered over the earth by the hand 
of sleep, charm away every care ; sweet enchantment lulls all 
nature into peace, and the weary rest, without anticipating 
the troubles of to-morrow. 

"Happy, indeed, are those unambitious, mistrustless, art- 
less people, if the gods vouchsafe them a king that disturbs 
not their blameless joy ! And of what horrid inhumanity are 
they guilty, who, to gratify pride and ambition, wrest from 
them the sweet products of the field, which they owe to the 
liberality of nature and the sweat of their brow! In the 
fruitful lap of nature there is inexhaustible plenty for temper- 
ance and labor : if none were luxurious and idle, none would 
be wretched and poor." 

" But what shall I do," said Idomeneus, " if the people 



360 WORKS OF FENELON. 

that I scatter over this fertile country should neglect to culti- 
vate it?" 

" You must do," said Mentor, "just contrary to what is com- 
monly done. Rapacious and inconsiderate princes think only 
of taxing those who are most industrious to improve their 
land ; because, upon these, they suppose a tax will' be more 
easily levied ; and they spare those whom idleness has made 
indigent. Reverse this mistaken and injurious conduct, which 
oppresses virtue, rewards vice, and encourages a supineness 
that is equally fatal to the king and to the State. Let your 
taxes be heavy upon those who neglect the cultivation of their 
lands, and add to your taxes fines, and other penalties if it is 
necessary. Punish the negligent and the idle, as you would 
the soldier who should desert his post. On the contrary, 
grant to those who, in proportion as their families multiply, 
cultivate their lands with the greater diligence, special privi- 
leges and immunities. Every family will then become numer- 
ous, and every one will be animated to labor, not only by the 
desire of gain, but of honor. The state of husbandry being no 
longer wretched, will no longer be contemptible. The plough, 
once more held in honor, will be guided by the victorious 
hands that have defended the country. It will not be less 
glorious to cultivate a paternal inheritance in the security of 
peace, than to draw the sword in its defence when it is en- 
dangered by war. The whole country will bloom around you ; 
the golden ears of ripe corn will again crown the temples of 
Ceres; Bacchus will tread the grapes in rich clusters under 
his feet, and wine, more delicious than nectar, will flow from 
the hills like a river ; the valleys will resound to the song of 
the shepherds, who, dispersed along the banks of a transparent 
stream, shall join their voices with the pipe ; while their 
flocks shall frolic round them, and feast upon the flowery pas- 
ture without fear of the wolf. 

" Idomeneus, will it not make you supremely happy to be 
the source of such prosperity — to stretch your protection, 
like the shadow of a rock, over so many people, who will re- 
pose under it in security and peace? "Will you not, in the 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X. 361 

consciousness of this, enjoy a noble elevation of mind, a calm 
sense of superior glory, such as can never touch the bosom of 
the tyrant who lives only to desolate the earth, and who dif- 
fuses, not less through his own dominions than those which 
he conquers from others, carnage and tumult, horror and an- 
guish, consternation, famine, and despair ? Happy, indeed, is 
the prince, whom his own greatness of soul and the distin- 
guishing favor of the gods shall render thus the delight of his 
people, and the example of succeeding ages ! The world, in- 
stead of taking up arms to oppose his power, will be found 
prostrate at his feet, and suing to be subject to his dominion." 

"But," said Idomeneus, "when the people shall be thus 
blessed with plenty and peace, will not their happiness corrupt 
their manners ? will they not turn against me the very strength 
I have given them ?" 

" There is no reason to fear that," said Mentor ; " the syco- 
phants of prodigal princes have suggested it as a pretence for 
oppression ; but it may easily be prevented. The laws which 
we have established with respect to agriculture will render life 
laborious ; and the people, notwithstanding their plenty, will 
abound only in what is necessary, for we have prohibited the 
arts that furnish superfluities ; and the plenty even of necessa- 
ries will be restrained within due bounds, by the facility of 
marriage and the multiplication of families. In proportion as 
a family becomes numerous, their portion of land being still 
the same in extent, a more diligent cultivation will become 
necessary, and this will require incessant labor. It is luxury 
and idleness that render people insolent and rebellious. They 
will have bread, indeed, and they will have bread enough ; but 
they will have nothing more, except what they can gain, from 
their own ground, by the sweat of their brow. 

" That your people may continue in this state of mediocrity, 
it will be necessary that you should now limit the extent of 
ground that each family is to possess. We have, you know, 
divided your people into seven classes, according to their differ- 
ent conditions ; and each family, in each -class, must be per- 
mitted to possess only such an extent of ground as is absolutely 
16 



362 WORKS OF FENELON. 

necessary for its subsistence. This regulation being inviolably 
observed, the nobles can never get possession of the lands of 
the poor. Every one will have land, but so much only as 
will make a diligent cultivation necessary. If, in a long course 
of years, the people should be so much increased that land 
cannot be found for them at home, they may be sent to form 
colonies abroad, which will be a new advantage to the mother 
country. 

" I am of opinion that care should be taken even to prevent 
wine from being too common in your kingdom. If you find 
that too many vines are planted, you should cause them to be 
grubbed up. Some of the most dreadful mischiefs that afflict 
mankind proceed from wine ; it is the cause of disease, quar- 
rels, sedition, idleness, aversion to labor, and every species of 
domestic disorder. Let wine then be considered as a kind of 
medicine ; or as a scarce liquor, to be used only at the sacri- 
fices of the gods, or in seasons of public festivity. Do not, 
however, fatter yourself that this regulation can ever take 
place without the sanction of your own example. 

" The laws of Minos, with respect to the education of chil- 
dren, must also be inviolably preserved. Public schools must 
be established, to teach them the fear of the gods, the love of 
their country, a reverence for the laws, and a preference of 
honor not only to pleasure but to life. 

" Magistrates must be appointed to superintend the conduct 
not only of every family, but of every person. You must keep 
also your own eye upon them ; for you are a king, only to be 
the shepherd of your people, and to watch over your flock 
night and day. By this unremitted vigilance you will pre- 
vent many disorders and many crimes. Such crimes as you 
cannot prevent, you must immediately punish with severity ; 
for, in this case, severity to the individual is clemency to the 
public — it stops those irregularities at their source which 
would deluge the country with misery and guilt. The taking 
away of one life, upon a proper occasion, will be the preserva- 
tion of many, and will make a prince sufficiently feared, with- 
out general or frequent severity. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X. 363 

" It is a detestable maxim, that the security of the prince 
depends only upon the oppression of the people. Should no 
care be taken to improve their knowledge or their morals? 
Instead of being taught to love him whom they are born to 
obey, should they be driven by terror to despair, and reduced 
to the dreadful necessity of either throwing off the yoke of 
their tyrant, or perishing under its weight? Can this be the 
way to reign with tranquillity ? can this be the path that leads 
to glory ? 

"Remember, that the sovereign who is most absolute is 
always least powerful : he seizes upon all, and his grasp is 
ruin. He is, indeed, the sole proprietor of whatever his State 
contains ; but, for that reason, his State contains nothing of 
value : the fields are uncultivated, and almost a desert ; the 
towns lose some of their few inhabitants every day ; and trade 
every day declines. The king, who must cease to ' be a king 
when he ceases to have subjects, and who is great only in 
virtue of his people, is himself insensibly losing his character 
and his power, as the number of his people, from whom alone 
both are derived, insensibly diminishes. His dominions are 
at length exhausted of money and of men : the loss of men is 
the greatest and the most irreparable he can sustain. Abso- 
lute power degrades every subject to a slave. The tyrant is 
flattered, even to an appearance of adoration, and every one 
trembles at the glance of his eye; but, at the least revolt, this 
enormous power perishes by its own excess. It derived no 
strength from the love of the people ; it wearied and provoked 
all that it could reach ; and rendered every individual of the 
State impatient of its continuance. At the first stroke of oppo- 
sition, the idol is overturned, broken to pieces, and trodden 
under foot. Contempt, hatred, fear, resentment, distrust, and 
every other passion of the soul, unite against so hateful a des- 
potism. The king who, in his vain prosperity, found no man 
bold enough to tell him the truth, in his adversity finds no 
man kind enough to excuse his faults, or to defend him against 
his enemies." 

Idomeneus then hastened to distribute his uncultivated lands, 



364: WORKS OF FENELON. 

to people them with useful artificers, and to carry all the coun- 
sels of Mentor into execution, — reserving for the builders such 
parts as had been allotted them, which they were not to culti- 
vate till they had finished the city. 

Just and mild was the government of Idomeneus, and it 
soon drew the inhabitants of the neighboring countries in 
crowds to Salentum, to be incorporated with his people and 
share the felicity of his reign. The fields, which had been long 
overgrown with thorns and brambles, now promised a rich 
harvest and fruits that were unknown before. The earth opens 
her bosom to the ploughshare, and gets ready her treasures to 
reward the husbandman. Every eye sparkles with hope. 
Innumerable flocks whiten alike the valleys and the hills ; the 
mountains resound with the lowing of the cattle, which, in 
large herds, share the pasture with the sheep ; and the pasture, 
thus enriched, becomes more fertile in proportion to the num- 
ber that it feeds. These flocks and herds were procured by 
the contrivance of Mentor, who advised Idomeneus to exchange 
for them, with the Peucetes, a neighboring people, such super- 
fluities as were prohibited by the new regulations at Salentum. 

At the same time, the city and the adjacent villages were 
filled with the youth of both sexes, who had long languished 
in dejection and indigence, and did not dare to marry for fear 
of increasing their distress. When they perceived that Idom- 
eneus had adopted sentiments of humanity, and had become 
the father of his people, they feared no longer the want of 
food, nor any other scourge w r ith which heaven chastises the 
earth. Nothing was heard but shouts of joy and the songs of 
shepherds and husbandmen, at the celebration of their mar- 
riage. Pan seemed himself to be among them, and fauns and 
satyrs to mix with nymphs in the dance, which the rural pipe 
prompted in the forest-shade. Tranquillity was everywhere 
heightened into joy, but the joy was nowhere perverted into 
riot ; it served only as a relaxation from labor, and that labor 
rendered it at once more lively and more pure. 

The old men were astonished to see what they had never 
dared to hope through the whole course of a long life, and 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X. 365 

burst into tears with excess of tenderness and joy. Their 
pleasure soon kindled into devotion, and, raising their tremu- 
lous hands to heaven, they cried out : " mighty Jupiter ! 
bless the prince that resembles thee, and is himself the greatest 
blessing thou couldst bestow upon us. He is born for the 
benefit of mankind ; return to him the benefits that we receive 
from him. The children of these marriages, and their descend- 
ants to the last generation, will be indebted to him for their 
existence, and he will be truly the father of his people." The 
young couples that were married expressed their joy by sing- 
ing the praises of him from whom it was derived. His name was 
continually on their lips, and his image in their hearts. They 
thought themselves happy if they could see him, and they 
feared his death as the greatest evil that could befall them. 

And now Idomeneus confessed to Mentor that he had never 
felt any pleasure equal to that of diffusing happiness and excit- 
ing affection. " It is a pleasure," said he, " of which I had no 
idea. I thought the greatness of a prince consisted in his 
being the object of fear, and that the rest of mankind were 
made only for him. What I had heard of kings that were the 
love and the delight of their people, I despised as a fable ; but 
T now revere it as truth. I will, however, tell you by what 
means these false notions, the cause of all my misfortunes, were 
early planted in my heart." 



BOOK XI 



Idomeneus relates to Mentor his confidence in Protesilaus, and the artifices 
of that favorite, in concert with Timocrates, to betray him and destroy 
Philocles. He confesses, that being prejudiced against him by these 
confederates, he sent Timocrates to kill him while he was abroad with 
the command of a fleet upon a dangerous expedition. Timocrates hav- 
ing failed in his attempt, Philocles forbore to avenge himself by taking 
his life, but, resigning the command of the fleet to Polymenes, who had 
been appointed to succeed him in the written orders for his death, he 
retired to the isle of Samos. Idomeneus adds that he at length discov- 
ered the perfidy of Protesilaus, but that, even then, he could not shake 
off his influence. Mentor prevails upon Idomeneus to banish Protesi- 
laus and Timocrates to the island of Samos, and recall Philocles to his 
confidence and councils. Ilegesippus, who is charged with this order, 
executes it with joy. He arrives with his prisoners at Samos, where he 
finds his friend Philocles in great .mdigence and obscurity, but content. 
He at first refuses to return, but the gods having signified it to bh their 
pleasure, he embarks with Hegesippus, and arrives at Salentum, where 
Idomeneus, who now sustains a new character, receives him with great 
friendship. 

" Among other persons whom I loved when I was very 
young, were Protesilaus and Philocles. Protesilaus was some- 
what older than myself, and was my chief favorite. His natu- 
ral disposition, which was sprightly and enterprising, exactly 
corresponded with my own. He entered into all my pleasures, 
flattered all my passions, and endeavored to render me suspi- 
cious of Philocles. Philocles had great reverence for the gods, 
an elevated mind, and obedient passions ; he placed greatness, 
oot in the acquisition of power, but in the conquest of self and 
in never stooping to a mean action. He often warned me of 
ny faults with great freedom, and when he did not dare to 
speak, his silence and the sorrow that was expressed in his 
countenance sufficiently convinced me that I had given cause 
for reproach. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 367 

" This sincerity at first gave me pleasure, and I frequently 
protested that I would always listen to the truths he told me, 
as the best preservative against flattery. He directed me how 
to walk in the steps of Minos, and give happiness to my people. 
His wisdom was not indeed equal to thine, but I now know that 
his counsel was good. By degrees, however, the artifices of 
Protesilaus, who was jealous and aspiring, succeeded. The 
frankness and integrity of Philocles disgusted me. He saw 
his own loss of influence, under the ascendency of Protesilaus, 
without a struggle : he contented himself with always telling 
me the truth, whenever I would hear it ; for he had my ad- 
vantage, and not his own interest, in view. 

" Protesilaus insensibly persuaded me that he was of a morose 
and haughty temper ; that he was a severe censor of my con- 
duct ; that he asked me no favor, only because he disdained 
obligation, and aspired to the character of a man superior to 
any honors. He added, that this youth, who spoke so freely 
of my faults to myself, spoke of them also with the same free- 
dom to others ; that he insinuated I was little worthy of 
esteem ; and that, by thus rendering me cheap in the eyes of 
the people, and by the artful parade of an austere virtue, he 
intended to open a way to the throne. 

" At first I could not believe that Philocles intended to 
deprive me of my crown ; there is, in true virtue, something 
open and ingenuous, which no art can counterfeit, and which, 
if it is attended to, can never be mistaken. But the steadiness 
with which Philocles opposed my follies began to weary me. 
The flattering compliance of Protesilaus, and his indefatigable 
industry to procure me new pleasures, made me still more im- 
patient of his rival's austerity. 

" In the mean time, Protesilaus, perceiving that I did not 
believe all he had told me of Philocles — his pride disdaining 
the suspicion which his falsehood had deserved — resolved to 
say nothing more to me about him, but to remove my doubts 
by stronger evidence than that of words. He therefore ad- 
vised me to give Philocles the command of some vessels that 
were fitted out against a fleet of the Carpathians, and supported 



368 WORKS OF FENELON. 

his advice with great subtlety. ' You know,' said he, ' that my 
commendations of Philocles cannot be suspected of partiality ; 
he is certainly brave, and has a genius for war ; he is more fit 
for this service than any other person you can send ; and I 
prefer the advancement of your interest to the gratification of 
my own resentment.' 

" This instance of generous integrity in a man to whom T 
had intrusted the most important affairs delighted me. I em- 
braced him in a transport of joy, and thought myself superla 
tively happy to have placed my confidence in a man who 
appeared to be at once superior to passion and to interest. 
But, alas! how much are princes to be pitied! This man 
knew me better than I knew myself; he knew that kings are 
generally mistrustful and indolent, — mistrustful by perpetually 
experiencing the artifices of the designing and corrupt, — indo- 
lent by the pleasures that solicit them, and the habit of leaving 
all business to others, without taking the trouble so much as to 
think for themselves. He knew, therefore, that it would not 
be difficult to render me jealous of a man who could not fail 
to perform great actions, especially when he was not present to 
detect the fallacy. 

"Philocles foresaw, at his departure, what would happen. 
* Remember,' said he, ' that I can now no longer defend my- 
self; that you will be accessible only to my enemy ; and that 
while I am serving you at the risk of my life, I am likely to 
obtain no other recompense than your indignation.' ' You are 
mistaken,' said I : * Protesilaus does not speak of you as you 
speak of him ; he commends, he esteems you, and thinks you 
worthy of the most important trust ; — if he should speak 
against you he would forfeit my confidence. Go, therefore, 
upon your expedition without fear, and think only how to con- 
duct it with advantage.' lie departed, and left me in uncom- 
mon perplexity. 

" I confess that I saw very clearly the necessity of consulting 
many understandings, and that nothing could more injure my 
reputation or my interest, than an implicit resignation to the 
counsels of an individual. I knew that the prudent advice of 




TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 

Philocles had preserved me from many dangerous errors, 
which the haughtiness of Protesilaus would have led me into. 
I was conscious that in the mind of Philocles there was a fund 
of probity and wisdom that I did not find in Protesilaus ; but 
I had suffered Protesilaus to assume a kind of dictatorial 
manner, which at length I found myself scarcely able to resist. 
I grew weary of consulting two men who could never agree, 
and chose rather to hazard something in the administration 
of my affairs, than continue the trouble of examining oppo- 
site opinions, and judging for myself which was the best. 
It is true I did not dare to assign the motives of so shame- 
ful a choice, even to myself; but these motives still con- 
tinued their secret influence in my heart, and directed all my 
actions. 

" Philocles surprised the enemy, and, having gained a com- 
plete victory, was hastening home to prevent the ill offices he 
had reason to fear ; but Protesilaus, who had not had time to 
effect his purpose, wrote him word that it was my pleasure he 
should improve his victory by making a descent upon the island 
of Carpathus. He had, indeed, persuaded me that a conquest 
of that island might easily be made, but he took care that 
many things necessary to the enterprise should be wanting, and 
gave Philocles also such orders as could not fail to embarrass 
him in the execution of it. 

" In the mean time, he engaged one of my domestics, a man 
of very corrupt manners, who was much about me, to observe 
all that passed, even to the minutest incident, and give him an 
account of it, though they appeared seldom to see each other, 
and never to agree. 

" This domestic, whose name was Timocrates, came to me 
one day and told me as a great secret that he had discovered 
a very dangerous affair. ' Philocles,' said he, ' intends, by the 
assistance of your forces, to make himself king of Carpathus. 
The officers are all in his interest, and he has gained the 
private men partly by his liberality, but principally by the 
pernicious irregularities which he tolerates among them. He 
is greatly elated by his victory ; and here is a letter which be 

16* 



370 WORKS OF FENELOff. 

has written to one of his friends concerning his project, which, 
after such evidence, it is impossible to doubt.' 

" I read the letter, which appeared to me to be in the hand- 
writing of Philocles ; but it was a forgery — concerted and 
executed between Protesilaus and Timocrates. This letter 
threw me into great astonishment : I read it again and again, 
and when I called to mind how many affecting proofs Philo- 
cles had given me of his disinterested fidelity, I could not per- 
suade myself that he was the writer. Yet, seeing the char- 
acters to be his, what could I determine? 

" When Timocrates perceived that his artifice had thus far 
succeeded, he pushed it further. ' May I presume,' said he, 
hesitating, ' to make one remark upon this letter ? Philocles 
tells his friend that he may speak in confidence to Protesilaus 
of one thing ; but he expresses that one thing by a cipher. 
Protesilaus is certainly a party in the project of Philocles, and 
they have accommodated their differences at your expense. 
You know it was Protesilaus that pressed you to send Philo- 
cles upon this expedition. For some time he has desisted from 
speaking against him as he formerly did ; he now takes every 
opportunity to excuse and commend him, and they have fre- 
quently met upon very good terms. There is no doubt that 
Protesilaus has concerted measures with Philocles to share his 
conquest between them. You see that he urged you to this 
enterprise against all rules of prudence and of policy, and that,, 
to gratify his ambition, he has endangered the loss of your 
fleet. Is it possible that he would have rendered himself thus 
subservient to the ambition of Philocles, if there had been en- 
mity between them ? It is manifest that they are associated 
in a design to aggrandize themselves, and perhaps to supplant 
you in the throne. I know that by thus revealing my suspi- 
cions I expose myself to their resentment, if you shall still 
leave your authority in their hands ; however, since I have 
done my duty I am careless of the event.' 

" The last words of Timocrates sunk deep into my mind ; I 
doubted not that Philocles was a traitor, and I suspected Pro- 
tesilaus as his friend. In the mean time, Timocrates was con- 



TELEMACHTTS. BOOK XI. 371 

tinually telling me that if I waited till Philocles had made a 
conquest of Carpathus, it would be too late to frustrate his 
designs. 'You must,' said he, 'secure him while he is in 
your power.' But I was struck with such horror at the deep 
dissimulation of mankind that I knew not whom to trust. 
After having discovered Philocles to be a traitor, I knew no 
man whose virtue could preclude suspicion. I resolved to cut 
off Philocles immediately, but I feared Protesilaus ; and with 
respect to him, I was in doubt what to do. I feared equally 
to find him guilty, and to trust him as innocent. 

" Such was the perplexity of my mind, that I could not for- 
bear telling him I had some suspicions of Philocles. He 
heard me with an appearance of the greatest surprise. He 
reminded me of his integrity and moderation in many instan- 
ces. He exaggerated his services, and did every thing that 
he could to strengthen my suspicions of there being too good 
an understanding between them. Timocrates, at the same 
time, was equally diligent on his part to fix my attention upon 
every circumstance that favored the notion of a confederacy, 
and was continually urging me to destroy Philocles while it 
was in my power. How unhappy a state, my dear Mentor, is 
royalty, and how much are kings the sport of other men, while 
other men appear to be trembling at their feet ! 

" I thought it would be a stroke of profound policy, and 
totally disconcert Protesilaus, to cut off Philocles immediately 
by sending Timocrates secretly to the fleet for that purpose. 
Protesilaus, in the mean time, carried on his dissimulation 
with the steadiest perseverance and most refined subtlety : he 
deceived me by appearing to be himself deceived. I sent 
away Timocrates, who found Philocles greatly embarrassed in 
making his descent, for which he was wholly unprovided. 
Protesilaus, foreseeing that his forged letter might fail of its 
effects, had taken care to have another resource, by making an 
enterprise difficult which he had persuaded me would be easy, 
and the miscarriage of which, therefore, could not fail of ex- 
posing Philocles, who had conducted it, to my resentment. 
Philocles, however, sustained himself under all difficulties 



372 WORKS OF FENELON. 

by his courage, his genius, and his popularity among the 
troops. There was not a private soldier in the army who did 
not see that the project of a descent was rash and impracti- 
cable ; yet every one applied himself to the execution of it with 
as much activity and zeal as if his life and fortune depended 
upon its success. Every one was at all times ready to hazard 
his life under a commander who was universally reverenced 
for his wisdom and loved for his benevolence. 

" Timocralcrt had every thing to fear from an attempt upon 
the life of a general in the midst of an army by which he was 
adored; but the fury of ambition is always blind. He saw 
neither difficulty nor danger in any measure that could gratify 
Protesilaus, in concert with whom he hoped to govern me 
without control, as soon as Philocles should be dead. Protes- 
ilaus could not bear the presence of a man whose very looks 
were a silent reproach, and who could at once disappoint all 
his projects by disclosing them to me. 

"Timocrates, having corrupted two of Philocles' officers, 
who were continually about his person, by promising them a 
great reward in my name, sent him word that he had some 
private instructions to communicate to him from me, and that 
those two officers only must be present. Philocles immedi- 
ately admitted them to a private room, and shut the door. 
As soon as they were alone, Timocrates made a stroke at him 
with a poniard, which entering obliquely, made but a slight 
wound. Philocles, with the calm fortitude of a man familiar 
with danger, forced the weapon out of his hand, and defended 
himself with it against the assassins, at the same time calling 
for assistance. Some of the people that waited without imme- 
diately forced the door, and disengaged him from his assail- 
ants, who, being in great confusion, had made a feeble and 
irresolute attack. They were immediately secured, and such 
was the indignation of the soldiers that they would the next 
moment have been torn to pieces, if Philocles had not inter- 
posed. After the first tumult had subsided, he took Timoc- 
rates aside, and asked him, without any tokens of resentment, 
what had prompted him to so horrid an attempt ? Timocrates. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 373 

who was afraid of being instantly put to death, made haste to 
produce the written order which I had given him for what he 
had done ; and as every villain is a coward, he thought only 
of saving his life by disclosing the whole treachery of Pro- 
tesilaus. 

" Philocles, terrified at the spectacle of human malice, pur- 
sued a course distinguished for moderation. He declared to 
the troops that Timocrates was innocent; he took care to 
secure him from their resentment, and sent him back in safety 
to Crete. He then gave up the command of the army to 
Polymenes, whom I had appointed, by written order, to suc- 
ceed him ; and having exhorted the troops to continue stead- 
fast in the fidelity they owed me, he went on board a small 
bark in the night, which landed him upon the island of Samos, 
where he still lives, with great tranquillity, in poverty and soli- 
tude. He procures a scanty subsistence by working as a 
statuary, and wishes not so much as to hear of men who are 
perfidious and unjust, — much less of kings, whom he believes 
to be the most deceived and the most unhappy of men." 

Idomeneus was here interrupted by Mentor. " Was it long," 
said he, " before you discovered the truth ?" " No," responded 
Idomeneus ; " but I discovered it by degrees. It was, indeed, 
not long before Protesilaus and Timocrates quarrelled ; for it 
is with great difficulty that the wicked can agree. Their dis- 
sension fully disclosed the depth of the abyss into which they 
had thrown me." "Well," said Mentor, "and did you not 
immediately dismiss them both ?" " Alas !" answered Idom- 
eneus, " can you be so ignorant of my weakness and the per- 
plexity of my situation ? When a prince has once delivered 
up himself with implicit confidence to bold and designing men, 
who have the art of rendering themselves necessary, he must 
never more hope to be free. Those whom he most despises, 
he most distinguishes by his favor, and loads with benefits. I 
abhorred Protesilaus, and yet left him in the possession of all 
my authority. Strange infatuation ! I was pleased to think 
that I knew him, yet I had not resolution enough to avail 
myself of that knowledge, and resume the power of which he 



374 WORKS OF FENELON. 

was unworthy. I found him, indeed, pliant and attentive; 
very diligent to flatter my passions, and very zealous to ad- 
vance my interests. I had, besides, some reasons which en- 
abled me to excuse my weakness to myself: having, unhap- 
pily, never chosen persons of integrity to manage my affairs, 
I doubted whether there was any such thing as integrity in 
the world. I considered virtue rather as a phantom than a 
reality ; and thought it ridiculous to get out of the hands of 
one bad man with great struggle and commotion, merely to 
fall into the hands of another, who would neither be less inter- 
ested nor more sincere." 

" In the mean time, the fleet commanded by Polymenes re- 
turned to Crete. I thought no more of the conquest of Car- 
pathus; and Protesilaus' dissimulation was not so deep but 
that I could perceive he was greatly mortified to hear that 
Philocles was out of danger at Samos." 

" But," said Mentor, " though you still continued Protesilaus 
in his post, did you still trust your affairs implicitly to his man- 
agement ?" 

"I was," responded Idomeneus, "too much an enemy to 
business and application to take them out of his hands. The 
trouble of instructing another would have broken in upon the 
plan of life which my indolence had formed, and I had no 
resolution to attempt it. I chose rather to shut my eyes than 
to see the artifices that were practised against me. I contented 
myself with letting a few of my favorites know that I was not 
ignorant of his treachery. Thus knowing that I was cheated, 
I imagined myself to be cheated but to a certain degree. I 
sometimes made Protesilaus sensible that I was offended at his 
usurpation. I frequently took pleasure in contradicting him, 
in blaming him publicly for something he had dene, and in 
deciding contrary to his opinion ; but he knew my supineness 
and sloth too well to have any apprehensions on this account. 
He always returned resolutely to the charge, sometimes with 
argument and importunity, sometimes with softness and insin- 
uation ; and, whenever he perceived that I was offended, he 
doubled his assiduity in furnishing such amusements as were 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK X3. 375 

most likely to soothe and soften me, or to engage me in some 
affair which he knew would make his assistance necessary, and 
afford him an opportunity of showing his zeal for my reputation. 

" This method of flattering my passions always succeeded, 
notwithstanding I was upon my guard against it. He knew 
all my secrets ; he relieved me in every perplexity ; he made 
the people tremble at my name. I could not, therefore, resolve 
to part with him. Yet, by keeping him in his place, I put it 
out of the power of honest men to show me my true interest. 
No man spoke freely in my council ; truth withdrew from me, 
and error, the harbinger of the fall of kings, perpetually pun- 
ished me for having sacrificed Philocles to the cruel ambition 
of Protesilaus. Even those who were best affected to my 
person and government thought themselves not obliged to 
undeceive me after so dreadful an example. I myself, my dear 
Mentor, was secretly afraid truth might burst through the 
crowd of flattery that surrounded me, and reach me with irre- 
sistible radiance ; for I should have been troubled at the pres- 
ence of a guide which I could not but approve, yet wanted 
resolution to follow. I should have regretted my vassalage, 
without struggling to be free ; for my own indolence, and the 
ascendency that Protesilaus had gained over me, concurred to 
chill me with the torpor of despair. I was conscious of a 
shameful situation, which I wished alike to hide from others 
and myself. You know the vain pride and false glory in 
which kings are reared : they can never bear to acknowledge 
themselves in the wrong. To conceal one fault, they will 
commit a hundred. Rather than acknowledge they have been 
once deceived, they will suffer themselves to be deceived for- 
ever. Such is the condition of weak and indolent princes, and 
such was mine when I set out for the siege of Troy. 

"I left the sole administration of my government to Pro- 
tesilaus, and he behaved, during my absence, with great 
haughtiness and inhumanity. The whole kingdom groaned 
under his oppression, but no man dared to send information of 
it to me : they knew that I dreaded the sight of truth, and 
that I always gave up to the cruelty of Protesilaus those that 



376 WORKS OF FENELON. 

ventured to speak against him. But the mischief increased in 
proportion to the fear that concealed it. He afterwards obliged 
me to dismiss Meriones, who followed me to the siege of Troy 
and acquired immortal honor. He grew jealous of him after 
my return, as he did of every man who was distinguished 
either by my favor or his own virtue. 

" The ascendency of Protesilaus, my dear Mentor, was the 
source of all my misfortunes. The revolt of the Cretans was 
not so much the effect of the death of my son, as of the ven- 
geance of the gods, whom my follies had provoked, and of the 
hatred of the people which Protesilaus had drawn upon me. 
An oppressive and tyrannical government had totally exhausted 
the patience of my subjects, when I imbrued my hands in the 
blood of my son ; and the horror of that action only threw ofF 
the veil from what had long lain concealed in their hearts. 

" Timocrates went with me to the siege of Troy, and gave 
private intelligence to Protesilaus by letter of all that he could 
discover. I was conscious that I was in captivity, but instead 
of making any effort to be free, I dismissed the subject from 
my thoughts in despair. When the Cretans revolted at my 
return, Protesilaus and Timocrates were the first that fled. 
They would certainly have abandoned me if I had not been 
obliged to fly almost at the same time. Be assured, my dear 
Mentor, that those who are insolent in prosperity are passive 
and timid in distress. The moment they are dispossessed of 
their authority, all is consternation and despair with them. In 
proportion as they have been haughty they become abject, and 
they pass in a moment from one extreme to the other." 

" But how comes it," said Mentor, " that, notwithstanding 
you perfectly know the wickedness of these two men, I still see 
them about you ? I can account for their following you hither 
because they had no prospect of greater advantage ; and I can 
easily conceive that you might afford them an asylum in this 
rising city from a principle of generosity ; but from what mo- 
tive can you still deliver yourself up to their management after 
such dreadful experience of the mischiefs it must produce ?" 

" You are not aware," said Idomeneus, " of how little use 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XI. 377 

experience is to indolent and effeminate princes, who are equally 
averse to business and reflection. They are, indeed, dissatisfied 
with every thing; but, for want of resolution, they reform 
nothing. Habitual connection with these men, which many 
years had confirmed, at length bound me to them by shackles 
that I could not break. As soon as I came hither they pre- 
cipitated me into that excessive expense of which you have 
been witness ; they have exhausted the strength of this rising- 
State ; they involved me in the war, which, without your assist- 
ance, must have destroyed me. I should soon have experienced 
at Salentum the same misfortunes which banished me from 
Crete ; but you have at once opened my eyes, and inspired me 
with resolution. In your presence, I am conscious of an influ- 
ence for which I cannot account ; I feel myself a new being in 
a more exalted state." 

Mentor then asked Idomeneus how Protesilaus had behaved 
during the change of measures which had lately taken place. 
" He has behaved," replied Idomeneus, " with the most refined 
subtlety. When you first arrived, he labored to excite my sus- 
picions by indirect insinuations. He alleged nothing against 
you himself; but now one, and then another, were perpetually 
coming to tell me that the two strangers were much to be 
feared. * One of them/ said they, ' is the son of the crafty and 
designing Ulysses ; the other seems to have deep designs, and 
to be of a dark and involved spirit. They have been accus- 
tomed to wander from one kingdom to another, and who knows 
but they have formed some design against this ? It appears 
even by their own account that they have been the cause of 
great troubles in the countries through which they have passed ; 
and we should remember that this State is still in its infancy, 
that it is not firmly established, and that a slight commotion 
would overturn it.' 

" Upon this subject Protesilaus was silent ; but he took great 
pains to convince me that the reformation which, by your ad- 
vice I had begun, was dangerous and extravagant. He urged 
me by arguments drawn for my particular interest. * If you 
place your people/ said he, ' in a state of such ease and plenty 



378 WORKS OF FENELON. 

they will labor no more ; they will become insolent, intracta- 
ble, and factious; weakness and distress only can render them 
supple and obedient.' He frequently endeavored to gain his 
point by assuming his former ascendency over me ; but he con- 
cealed it under an appearance of zeal for my service. * By 
casing your people, 7 said he, 'you will degrade the regal au- 
thority; and this will be an irreparable injury, even to the 
people themselves ; for nothing but keeping them in the lowest 
subjection can preserve them from the restlessness of discontent 
and the turbulence of faction.' 

" To all this I replied that I could easily keep the people to 
their duty by making them love me ; by exerting all my 
authority without abusing it ; by steadily punishing all offend- 
ers ; by taking care that children should be properly educated ; 
and by maintaining such discipline among the people as should 
render life simple, sober, and laborious. * What !' said I, i can 
no people be kept in subjection but those that are perishing 
with hunger ? Does the art of government exclude kindness, 
and must the politician be necessarily divested of humanity ? 
How many nations do we see governed with a gentle hand, yet 
inflexibly loyal to their prince ! Faction and revolt are the 
effects of restlessness and ambition in the great, whose passions 
have been indulged to excess, and who have been suffered to 
turn freedom into license, — of the effeminacy, luxury, and idle- 
ness of great numbers of all ranks, — of too large a military 
establishment, which must consist of persons wholly unac- 
quainted with every occupation that can be useful in a time of 
peace, — and chiefly of the wrongs of an injured people, whom 
intolerable oppression has at last made desperate. The sever- 
ity, the pride, and the indolence of princes, which render them 
incapable of that comprehensive vigilance, which alone can 
prevent disorder in the State, are the first causes of tumult and 
insurrection, and not the secure and peaceful repast of the hus- 
bandman upon that bread which he has obtained by the sweat 
of his brow.' 

" When Protesilaus perceived that in these principles I was 
inflexible, he totally changed his method of attack ; he began 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 379 

to act upon those very maxims which he had labored in vain 
to subvert; he pretended to adopt them from conviction, and 
with a relish, and expressed great obligations to me for remov- 
ing his prejudices and throwing new light upon his mind. 
He anticipates my very wishes, and, in order to relieve the 
poor, he is the first to represent their necessity, and to exclaim 
against unnecessary expense. He is even, as you know, elo- 
quent in your praise ; he expresses the greatest confidence in 
your wisdom and integrity, and neglects nothing that he thinks 
will give you pleasure. His friendship with Timocrates seems 
to decline; Timocrates is endeavoring to throw off his depend- 
ence ; Protesilaus has become jealous of him ; and it is partly 
by their disagreement that I have discovered their treachery." 

" You have, then," said Mentor, with a smile, " been weak 
enough to suffer even by detected villainy, and to continue 
subservient to traitors after you knew their treason." " Alas !" 
responded Idomeneus, " you do not know the power of artful 
men over a weak and indolent prince, who has put the whole 
management of his affairs into their hands. Besides, Protesi- 
laus, as I have just told you, now enters with great zeal into all 
your projects for the general advantage of the State." 

" I know but too well," said Mentor, with a look of some 
severity, " that of those that surround a prince the wicked pre- 
vail over the good. Of this truth you are yourself a terrible 
example. You say that I have opened your eyes to your true 
interest, yet you are still so blind as to trust the administration 
of your government to a wretch that is not fit to live. It is 
time you should learn that a man may perform good actions 
and be still wicked ; that men of the worst principles and dis- 
positions do good, when it serves their purpose, with the same 
facility as evil. It is true that they do evil without reluctance, 
because they are withheld neither by sentiment nor principle ; 
but it is also true that they do good without violence to them-, 
selves, because the success even of their vices depends upon 
appearances of virtue which they do not possess, and because 
they gratify their own depravity while they are deceiving man- 
kind. They are, however, incapable of virtue, though they 






380 WORKS OF fe\nelon. 

appear to practise it ; they can only * add to every other vice 
that which is more odious than all — n^voocrisy. While you 
continue resolute and peremptory that ge^od shall be done, 
Protesilaus will do good to preserve his authority ; but if he 
perceives the least tendency to relaxation, he win 1 seize, and 
with all his powers improve, the opportunity to bewil&ler you 
again in perplexity and error, and resume his natural dissimu- 
lation and ferocity. Is it possible that you should live with 
honor or in peace while you see such a wretch as Protesilaus 
forever at your side, and remember that Philocles, the faithful 
and the wise, still lives in poverty and disgrace at Samos ? 

"You acknowledge, O Idomeneus, that princes are over- 
borne and misled by bold and designing men that are about 
them ; but you should not forget that princes are liable to an- 
other misfortune, by no means inferior — a propensity to forget 
the virtues and the services of those that are absent. Princes, 
being continually surrounded by a multitude, are not forcibly 
impressed by any individual : they are struck only with what 
is present and pleasing ; the remembrance of every thing else 
is soon obliterated. Virtue affects them less than any other 
object, for virtue can seldom please, as it opposes and condemns 
their follies. Princes love nothing but pomp and pleasure ; 
and who, therefore, can wonder that princes are not beloved !" 

After this conversation, Mentor persuaded Idomeneus imme- 
diately to dismiss Protesilaus and Timocrates, and to recall 
Philocles. The king would immediately have complied, if 
there had not been a severity of virtue in Philocles, of which 
he feared the effects. " I confess," said he, " that though I 
love and esteem him, I cannot perfectly reconcile myself to 
his return. I have, even from my infancy, been accustomed 
to praise, assiduity, and compliances, which, in Philocles, I 
shall not find. Whenever I took any measures that he disap- 
proved, the dejection of his countenance was sufficient to con- 
demn me. When we were together in private, his behavior 
was respectful and decent, indeed, but it was ungracious and 
austere." 

"Do you not see," replied Mentor, "that to princes who 






TELEMACHT7S. BOOK XI. 381 

have been spoiled by flattery, every thing that is sincere and 
honest appears to be ungracious and austere ? Such princes 
are even weak enough to suspect a want of zeal for their ser- 
vice, and respect for their authority, where they do not find a 
servility that is ready to flatter them in the abuse of their 
power. They are offended at all freedom of speech, all gener- 
osity of sentiment, as pride, censoriousness, and sedition. They 
contract a false delicacy, which every thing short of flattery 
disappoints and disgusts. But let us suppose that Philocles 
is really ungracious and austere, will not his austerity be 
preferable to the pernicious flattery of those that are now 
about you ? Where will you find a man without fault ? And 
is not the fault of speaking truth a little too roughly and freely, 
one from which you have less to fear than from any other ? 
Is it not, indeed, a fault which your own indiscretion has made 
necessary to your interest, as that only which can surmount 
the aversion to truth that flattery has given you ? You stand 
in need of a man who loves only truth and you ; who loves 
you better than you know how to love yourself; who will 
speak truth notwithstanding your opposition, and force a way 
for it through all your intrenchments. Such a man, and so 
necessary, is Philocles. Remember, that the greatest good 
fortune a prince can hope is, that one man of such magnani- 
mous generosity should be born in his reign. In corrparison 
with such a man, all the treasures of the State are of no value, 
and a prince can suffer no punishment so dreadful as that of 
losing him, by becoming unworthy of his virtue, and not 
knowing how to profit by his services. 

"You ought certainly to avail yourself of worthy men, 
though it is not necessary that you should be blind to their 
faults ; in these never implicitly acquiesce, but endeavor to 
correct them. Give merit, however, always a favorable hear- 
ing, and let the public see that you at once distinguish and 
honor it. But, above all things, strive to be no longer what 
you have been. Princes, whose virtues, like yours, have suf- 
fered by the vices of others, generally content themselves with 
a speculative disapprobation of corrupt men, and at the same 



382 WOKKS OF FENELON. 

time employ them with the utmost confidence, and load them 
with riches and honor. On the other hand, they value them- 
selves upon discerning and approving men of virtue, but they 
reward them only with empty praise, and want magnanimity 
to assign them employments, to admit them to their friendship, 
or distinguish them by their favor." 

Idomeneus then confessed that he was ashamed of having 
so long delayed to deliver innocence from oppression, and to 
punish those that had abused his confidence. All the scruples 
about recalling Philocles being removed, Mentor had no diffi- 
culty in persuading the king to dismiss his favorite ; for, when 
once an opposition to a favorite has so far succeeded that he 
is suspected and becomes troublesome, the prince, feeling him- 
self perplexed and uneasy, thinks only how to get rid of him : 
all friendship vanishes, and all services are forgotten. The fall 
of a favorite gives no pain to his master, if, as soon as he is 
undone, he is removed out of sight." 

Idomeneus immediately gave private orders to Hegesippus, 
one of the principal officers of his household, to seize Protesi- 
laus and Timocrates, and conduct them in safety to the isle of 
Samos ; to leave them there, and to bring Philocles back to 
Salentum. Hegesippus, at the receipt of this order, burst into 
tears of surprise and joy. "You will now," said he to the 
king, " make every heart in your dominions glad. These men 
were the cause of all the misfortunes that have befallen you 
and your people. Good men have now groaned, twenty years, 
under an oppression so severe, that they scarcely dared even 
to groan. To complain was impossible ; for those who at- 
tempted to approach you, otherwise than by the favorites, 
were sure to be immediately crushed by their power." 

Hegesippus then acquainted the king with innumerable 
instances of their treachery and inhumanity, of which he had 
never heard, because nobody dared to accuse them. He told 
him, also, that he had discovered a conspiracy against the life 
of Mentor. The king was struck with horror at the relation. 

Hegesippus, that he might seize Protesilaus without delay, 
went immediately to his house. It was not so large as the 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 383 

palace, but it was better designed, both for convenience and 
pleasure : the architecture was in better taste, and it was 
decorated with a profusion of expense, which the most cruel 
oppression had supplied. He was then in a marble saloon 
that opened to his baths, reclining negligently upon a couch 
that was covered with purple embroidered with gold : he ap- 
peared to be weary, and even exhausted with his labors ; there 
was a gloom of discontent upon his brow, and his eye express- 
ed a kind of agitation and ferocity not to be described. The 
principal persons of the kingdom sat round him upon carpets, 
watching his looks even to the slightest glance of his eye, and 
reflecting every expression of his countenance from their own. 
If he opened his mouth, all was ecstasy and admiration; and, 
before he had uttered a word, they vied with each other which 
should be loudest in the praise of what he had to say. One 
of them regaled him with an account of the services he had 
rendered to the king, heightened with the most ridiculous 
exaggeration. Another declared that his mother had con- 
ceived him by Jupiter in the likeness of her husband, and that 
he was son to the father of the gods. In some verses that 
were recited by a poet, he was said to have been instructed 
by the Muses, and to have rivalled Apollo in all the works of 
imagination and wit. Another poet, still more servile and 
shameless, celebrated him as the inventor of the fine arts, and 
the father of a people among whom he had scattered plenty 
and happiness, from the horn of Amalthea, with a liberal hand. 
Protesilaus heard all this adulation with a cold, negligent, 
and disdainful air, as if he thought his merit was without 
bounds, and that he honored those too much from whom he 
condescended to receive praise. Among other flatterers, there 
was one who took the liberty to whisper some jest upon the 
new regulations that were taking place under the direction of 
Mentor. The countenance of Protesilaus relaxed into a smile, 
and immediately the whole company laughed, though the 
greater part knew nothing of what had been said. The coun- 
tenance of Protesilaus became again haughty and severe, and 
every one shrank back into timidity and silence. Noblemen 



381 WORKS OF FENELON. 

watched for the happy moment in which he would turn his 
eye upon them, and permit them to speak. Having some 
favor to ask, they discovered the greatest agitation and per- 
plexity; their supplicatory posture supplied the want of words, 
and they seemed to be impressed with the same humility and 
reverence as a mother who petitions the gods at their altar for 
the life of an only son. Every countenance expressed a tender 
complacency and admiration, but every heart concealed the 
most implacable hatred. 

At this moment Hegesippus entered the saloon, seized the 
sword of Protesilaus, and acquainted him that he had the 
king's orders to carry him to Samos. At these dreadful words, 
all the arrogance of the favorite fell in a moment, like the 
fragment of a rock that is broken from the summit of a moun- 
tain. He threw himself at the feet of Hegesippus : he wept, 
hesitated, faltered, trembled, and embraced the knees of a man 
upon whom, an hour before, he would have disdained to turn 
his eye. At the same time, his flatterers, who saw that his 
ruin was complete and irreparable, insulted him with a mean- 
ness and cruelty worthy of their adulation. 

Hegesippus would not allow him time even to take leave of 
his family, or to secure his private papers, which were all 
seized and put into the king's hands. Timocrates was also 
arrested at the same time, to his inexpressible surprise ; for, 
being upon ill terms with Protesilaus, he had not the least 
apprehension of being involved in his ruin. They were both 
carried on board a vessel which had been prepared to receive 
them. 

They arrived in safety at Samos, where Hegesippus left his 
prisoners; and, to complete their misfortunes, he left them 
together. Here, with a rancor natural to their circumstances 
and disposition, they reproached each other with the crimes 
that had brought on their ruin. Here they were condemned 
to live, without the least hope of returning to Salentum, at a 
distance from their wives and children, not to mention friends, 
for a friend they never had. With the country they were 
wholly unacquainted, and had no means of subsistence but by 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 385 

their labor — a situation of which the disadvantages were greatly 
aggravated by past luxury and splendor, which long habit had 
made almost as necessary to them as food and rest. In this: 
condition, like two wild beasts of the forest, they were always 
ready to tear each other to pieces. 

In the mean time, Hegesippus inquired in what part of the 
island Philocles was to be found. He was told that he lived 
at a considerable distance from the city, upon a mountain, in 
which there was a cave that served him for a habitation. 
Every one spoke of him with admiration and esteem. " He 
has never given offence," said they, " in a single instance, since 
he has been in the island ; every heart is touched at the 
patience of his labor and the cheerfulness of his indigence : 
he possesses nothing, yet is always content. Though he is 
remote both from the business and the pleasures of the world, 
without property and without influence, yet he can still find 
means to oblige merit, and has a thousand contrivances to 
gratify his neighbors." 

Hegesippus immediately repaired to the cave, which he 
found empty and open ; for the poverty of Philocles, and the 
simplicity of his manners, made it unnecessary for him to shut 
his door when he went out. A mat of coarse rushes served 
him for a bed. He rarely kindled a fire, because his food was 
generally such as needed no dressing : in summer he lived 
upon freshly-gathered fruits, and upon dried dates and figs in 
winter. He quenched his thirst at a clear spring that fell in 
a natural cascade from the rock. His cave contained nothing 
but the tools necessary for sculpture, and some books that he 
read at certain hours, which he appropriated to that purpose, 
not to adorn his mind or gratify his curiosity, but that, 
while he rested from his labor, he might gain instruction, and 
avoid being idle by learning to be good. He employed him- 
self in sculpture, not to procure reputation or wealth, but 
merely to keep his body in exercise, and procure the necessaries 
of life without contracting obligations. 

When Hegesippus entered the cave, he admired the pieces 
of art that were begun. He observed a Jupiter, on whose 
17 



386 WORKS OF FENELON. 

countenance there was a serene majesty, by which he was im- 
mediately known to be the father of the gods and men. He 
perceived also a Mars, well distinguished by a proud and 
menacing ferocity. But he was most struck with a Minerva, 
represented as encouraging the arts : the expression of the 
countenance was at once noble and gracious, the stature was 
lofty and free, and the action so natural that the spectator was 
almost persuaded she would move. 

Hegesippus, having viewed these statues with great pleasure, 
retired ; and, as he was coming out of the cave, saw Philocles 
at a distance, sitting upon the grass, under the shade of a large 
tree, and reading. He immediately advanced towards him, 
and Philocles, who perceived him, scarcely knew what to think. 
" Is not that Hegesippus," said he to himself, " with whom I 
was so long familiar at Crete ? But what can have brought 
him to an island so remote as Samos? Is he not dead, and is 
not this his shade which has returned from the banks of the 
Styx to revisit the earth ?" 

While he was thus doubting of what he saw, Hegesippus 
came so near that his doubts were dispelled. " Is it you then," 
said he, embracing him, " my dear, my early friend ? What 
accident, or what tempest, has thrown you upon this coast ? 
Have you voluntarily deserted the island of Crete, or have 
you been driven from your country by misfortune like mine ?" 

"It is not misfortune," said Hegesippus, " but the favor of the' 
gods, that has brought me hither." He then gave his friend a 
particular account of the long tyranny of Protesilaus, of his 
intrigues with Timocrates, of the calamities which they had 
brought upon Idomeneus, of his expulsion from the throne, 
his flight to Hesperia, the founding of Salentum, the arrival of 
Mentor and Telemachus, the wisdom which Mentor had dif- 
fused into the mind of the king, and the disgrace of the traitors 
by whom he had been abused. He added, that he had brought 
them in exile to Samos, whither they had banished Philo- 
cles ; and concluded, that he had orders to bring him back to 
Salentum, where the king, who was convinced of his integ- 
rity, intended to intrust him with the administration of his 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 387 

government, and distinguish him by rewards adequate to his 
merit. 

" You see that cave," said Philocles, " which is more fit for 
the haunt of wild beasts than for the habitation of a man ; 
and yet in that cave I have enjoyed more tranquillity and re- 
pose than in the gorgeous palaces of Crete. I am no more 
deceived by man, for with man I have no more connection. 
I neither see, nor hear, nor need him : my own hard hands, 
which are now inured to labor, supply me with such simple food 
as nature has made necessary ; and, this slight stuff that you see 
sufficing to cover me, I am without wants. I enjoy a serene, 
perfect, and delightful freedom, of which the wisdom that is 
contained in my books teaches me the proper use. Why then 
should I again mix with mankind, and again suffer by their 
jealousy, fraud, and caprice ? Envy not, my dear Hegesippus, 
the good fortune I possess. Protesilaus has betrayed the king, 
and would have murdered me : he has fallen into his own 
snare, but he has done me no harm ; he has on the contrary 
done me the greatest good; he has delivered me from the 
tumult and slavery of public business : to him I am indebted 
for this sweet solitude, and the innocent pleasures I enjoy. 

" Return, then, my friend, to your prince ; assist him under 
the necessary infelicities of grandeur, and do for him whatever 
you wish should be done by me. Since his eyes, which were 
so long shut against truth, have been at last opened by the 
wisdom of a person whom you call Mentor, let him also keep 
that person about him. As for me, having once suffered ship- 
wreck, it is by no means fit that I should forsake the port in 
which the tempest has so fortunately thrown me, and tempt 
again the caprice of the winds. Alas ! how much are kings 
to be pitied ! how worthy of compassion are those that serve 
them ! If they are wicked, what misery do they diffuse among 
others, and what punishment do they treasure up for them- 
selves in black Tartarus ! If they are good, what difficulties 
have they to surmount, what snares to avoid, what evils tc 
suffer ! Once more, my dear Hegesippus, leave me in my 
happy poverty." 



3 83 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Philocles expressed these sentiments with great vehemence, 
and Hegesippus looked upon him with astonishment. lie had 
known him in Crete, when he conducted the business of the 
State, and he was then pale, languishing, and emaciated : the natu- 
ral ardor of his temper, and his scrupulous regard to rectitude, 
made a public station fatal to his health. He could not see 
vice go unpunished without indignation, nor suffer unavoidable 
irregularities without regret. At Crete, therefore, he suffered 
a perpetual decay. But at Samos he was vigorous and lusty; 
a new youth, in spite of years, bloomed upon his countenance ; 
a life of temperance, tranquillity, and exercise seemed to have 
restored the constitution which nature had given him. 

" You are surprised to see me so altered," said Philocles, 
with a smile ; " but I owe this freshness, this perfection of 
health, to my retirement : my enemies, therefore, have given 
me more than fortune could bestow. Can you wish me to 
forsake substantial for imaginary good, and incur again the 
misfortunes from which it is now my happiness to be free ? 
You would not, surely, be more cruel than Protesilaus ; you 
cannot envy me the good fortune that he has bestowed." 

Hegesippus then urged him from every motive that he 
thought likely to touch his sensibility, but without effect. 
" Would the sight of your family and friends, then," said he, 
" give you no pleasure ; of those who languish for your return, 
and live but in the hope of once more pressing you to their 
bosom? And is it nothing for you, who fear the gods and 
make a conscience of your duty, to render service to your 
prince, to assist him in the exercise of virtue and in the diffusion 
of happiness ? Is it blameless to indulge an unsocial philoso- 
phy, to prefer your own interest to that of mankind, and 
choose rather to procure ease for yourself than to give happi- 
ness to others ? P>esides, if you persist in your resolution not to 
return, it will be imputed to resentment against the king. If he 
intended evil against you, it was only because he was a stran- 
ger to your merit: it was not Philocles, the faithful, the just, 
the good, that he would have cut off, but a man of whom he 
had conceived a very different idea. He now knows you, and it 



TELEMACHTJS. — BOOK XI. 389 

being now impossible he should now mistake you for another, 
his first friendship will revive with new force. He expects 
you with impatience ; his arms are open to receive you ; he 
numbers the days, and even the hours of your delay. Can 
you then be inexorable to your king ? Can your heart resist 
the tender solicitudes of friendship ?" 

Philocles, whom the first recollection of Hegesippus had 
melted into tenderness, now resumed a look of distance and 
severity. He remained immovable as a rock against which 
the tempest rages in vain, and the roaring surge dashes only 
to be broken ; neither entreaty nor argument found any pas- 
sage to his heart. But the piety of Philocles would not suffer 
him to indulge his inclination, however supported by his judg- 
ment, without consulting the gods. He discovered, by the 
flight of birds, by the entrails of victims, and by other pre- 
sages, that it was their pleasure he should go with Heges- 
ippus. 

He therefore resisted no more, but complied with the re- 
quest of Hegesippus, and prepared for his departure. He did 
not, however, quit the solitude in which he had lived so many 
years without regret. " Must I then," said he, " forsake this 
pleasing, cell, where peaceful and obedient slumbers came 
every night to refresh me after the labors of the day — where 
my easy life was a silken thread which the Fates, notwithstand- 
ing my poverty, entwined with gold !" The tears started to 
his eyes, and prostrating himself on the earth, he adored the 
Naiad of the translucent spring that had quenched his thirst, 
and the Nymphs of the mountains that surrounded his retreat. 
Echo heard his expressions of tenderness and regret, and, with 
a gentle and plaintive voice, repeated them to all the sylvan 
deities of the place. 

Philocles then accompanied Hegesippus to the city, in order 
to embark. He thought that Protesilaus, overwhelmed with 
confusion, and burning with resentment, would be glad to 
avoid him, but he was mistaken : men without virtue are with- 
out shame, and always ready to stoop to any meanness, 
Philocles modestly concealed himself, for fear the unhappy 



390 WORKS OF FENELON. 

wretch should see him : he supposed that to see the pros- 
perity of an enemy, which was founded on his ruin, would 
aggravate his misery. But Protesilaus sought him out with 
great eagerness, and endeavored to excite his compassion, and 
to engage him to solicit the king for permission to return to 
Salentum. Philocles, however, was too sincere to give him the 
least hope that he would comply ; for he knew, better than 
any other, the mischiefs that his return would produce ; but he 
soothed him with expressions of pity, offered him such conso- 
lation as his situation would admit, and exhorted him to pro- 
pitiate the gods by purity of manners and resignation to his 
sufferings. As he had heard that the king had taken from him 
all the wealth that he had unjustly acquired, he promised him 
two things, which he afterwards faithfully performed, — to take 
his wife and children, who remained at Salentum, exposed to 
all the miseries of poverty and all the dangers of popular 
resentment, under his protection ; and to send him some sup- 
plies of money to alleviate the distress he must suffer in a state 
of banishment so remote from his country. 

The wind being fair, Hegesippus hastened the departure of 
his friend. Protesilaus saw them embark. His eyes were 
fixed upon the sea, and pursued the vessel, as, driven by the 
wind, she made her way through the parting waves, and every 
moment receded. When he could distinguish the ship no 
more, its image was still impressed upon his mind. At last, 
seized with the phrensy of despair, he rolled himself in the 
sands, tore his hair, and reproached the gods for the severity 
of their justice. He called upon Death, but even Death 
rejected his petition, and disdained to deliver him from the 
misery from which he wanted courage to deliver himself. 

In the mean time the vessel, favored by Neptune and the 
winds, soon arrived at Salentum. When the king was told 
that it was entering the port, he ran out with Mentor to meet 
Philocles, whom he tenderly embraced, and expressed the ut- 
most regret at having so unjustly persecuted him. This ac- 
knowledgment was so far from degrading him in the opinion of 
the people, that every one considered it as the effort of an 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XI. 391 

exalted mind, which, as it were, triumphed over its own fail- 
ings by confessing them with a view to reparation. The public 
joy at the return of Philocles, the friend of man, and at the 
wisdom and goodness expressed by the king, was so great that 
it overflowed in tears. 

Philocles received the caresses of his prince with the most 
respectful modesty, and was impatient to escape from the 
acclamations of the people. He followed Idomeneus to the 
palace, and though Mentor and he had never seen each other 
before, there was immediately the same confidence between 
them as if they had been familiar from their birth. The gods, 
who have withheld from the wicked the power of recognizing 
the good, have imparted to the good a faculty of immediately 
recognizing each other. Those who have a love for virtue 
cannot be together without being united by that virtue which 
they love. 

Philocles, after a short time, requested the king to dismiss 
him to some retirement near Salentum, where he might live in 
the same obscurity he had enjoyed at Samos. The king 
granted his request, but went almost every day with Mentor to 
visit him in his retreat, where they consulted how the laws 
might best be established, and the government fixed upon a 
permanent foundation for the advantage of the people. 

The two principal objects of their consultation were, the 
education of children, and the manner of life to be prescribed 
during peace. 

As to the children, Mentor said : " They belong less to their 
parents than to the State ; they are the children of the com- 
munity, and they are at once its hope and its strength. It is 
too late to correct them when habits of vice have been acquired : 
it is doing little to exclude them from employments when they 
have become unworthy of trust. It is always better to pre- 
vent evil than to punish it. The prince who is the father of 
his people is, more particularly, the father of the youth, who 
may be considered as the flower of the nation. It is in the 
flower that care should be taken of the fruit ; a king, there- 
fore, should not disdain to watch over the rising generation, 



392 WORKS OF FENELON. 

nor to appoint others to watch with him. Let him enforce 
with inflexible constancy the laws of Minos, which ordain that 
children shall be so educated as to endure pain without impa- 
tience, and expect death without terror, — that contempt of 
luxury and wealth shall be honor, — that injustice, ingratitude, 
and voluptuous idleness shall be infamy, — that children, from 
their tenderest youth, shall be taught to commemorate the 
achievements of heroes, the favorites of heaven, who have 
sacrificed private interest to their country, and signalized their 
courage in battle, — that their souls shall be moved by the 
charm of music, to render their manners gentle and pure, — that 
they shall learn to be tender to their friends, faithful to their 
allies, and equitable to all men, their enemies not excepted ; 
that, above all, they shall be taught to dread the reproach of 
conscience, as an evil much greater than torture or death. If 
these maxims are impressed early upon the heart, with all the 
power of eloquence and the charms of music, there will be 
few, indeed, in whom they will not kindle the love of virtue 
and of fame. 

" It is," added Mentor, " of the utmost importance to estab- 
lish public schools for inuring youth to the most robust exer- 
cises, and preserving them from effeminacy and idleness, which 
render the most liberal endowments of nature useless." He 
advised the institution of public games and shows, with as much 
variety as could be contrived, to rouse the attention and inter- 
est the feelings of the people, but, above all, to render the body 
supple, vigorous, and active; and he thought it proper to 
excite emulation, by giving prizes to those that should excel. 
He wished also, as the most powerful preservative against 
general depravity of manners, that the people should marry 
early ; and that parents, without any views of interest, would 
leave the young men to the free choice of such wives as their 
inclination naturally led them to prefer." 

But while these measures were concerted to preserve a 
blameless simplicity among the rising generation, to render 
them laborious and tractable, and, at the same time, to give 
them a sense of honor, Philocles, whose military genius made 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XI. 393 

him fond of war, observed to Mentor that it would signify 
little to institute public exercises, if the youth were suffered to 
languish in perpetual peace, without bringing their courage to 
the test, or requiring experience in the field. " The nation," 
said he, " will be insensibly enfeebled ; courage will relax into 
effeminate softness ; a general depravity, the necessary effect 
of uninterrupted abundance and tranquillity, will render them 
an easy prey to any warlike nation that shall attack them ; 
and, aiming to avoid the miseries of war, they will incur the 
most deplorable slavery." 

"The calamities of war," said Mentor, "are more to be 
dreaded than you imagine. War never fails to exhaust the 
State and endanger its destruction, with whatever success it is 
carried on. Though it may be commenced with advantage, it 
can never be finished without danger of the most fatal reverse 
of fortune. With whatever superiority of strength an engage- 
ment is begun, the least mistake, the slightest accident, may 
turn the scale, and give victory to the enemy. Nor can a 
nation that should be always victorious prosper; it would 
destroy itself by destroying others : the country would be 
depopulated, the soil untilled, and trade interrupted ; and, 
what is still worse, the best laws would lose their force, and a 
corruption of manners insensibly take place. Literature will 
be neglected among the youth ; the troops, conscious of their 
own importance, will indulge themselves in the most pernicious 
licentiousness with impunity ; and the disorder will necessa- 
rily spread through all the branches of government. A prince 
who, in the acquisition of glory, would sacrifice the life of half 
his subjects and the happiness of the rest, is unworthy of the 
glory he would acquire, and deserves to lose what he rightfully 
possesses for endeavoring unjustly to usurp the possessions of 
another. 

" It is, however, easy to exercise the courage of the people 
in a time of peace. We have already instituted public exer- 
cises, and assigned prizes to excite emulation; we have directed 
that the achievements of the brave shall be celebrated in songs 
to their honor, which will kindle, in the breasts even of chil- 
li « 



39i WORKS OF FENELON. 

dreri, a desire of glory, and animate them to the exercise of 
heroic virtue ; we have also taken care that they shall be 
inured to sobriety and labor : but this is not all. When any 
of your allies shall be engaged in war, the flower of your youth, 
particularly those who appear to have a military genius, and 
will profit most by experience, should be sent as auxiliaries 
into the service. You will thus stand high in the estimation 
of the Stptes with which you are connected ; your friendship 
will be sought, and your displeasure dreaded ; without being 
engaged in war in your own country and at your own expense, 
you will always have a youth trained to war and courageous. 
Though you are at peace yourselves, you should treat, with 
great honor, those who have distinguished abilities for war; 
for the best way of keeping war at a distance is to encourage 
milita v y knowledge ; to honor those who excel in the profession 
of arms ; to have some of your people always in foreign ser- 
vice, who will know the strength and discipline of the neigh- 
boring States, and the manner of their military operations ; to 
be, at once, superior to the ambition that would court war, and 
to the effeminacy that would fear it. Thus, being always pre- 
pared for war when you are driven into it by necessity, you 
will find that the necessity of making war will seldom happen. 
" When your allies are about to make war upon each other, 
you should always interfere as mediator. You will thus acquire 
a genuine and lasting glory, which sanguinary conquest can 
never give : you will gain the love and esteem of foreign na- 
tions, and become necessary to them all ; you will rule other 
States by the confidence they place in you, as you govern your 
own by the authority of your station ; you will be the common 
repository of their secrets, the arbiter of their differences, and 
the object of their love ; your fame will then fly to the 
remotest regions of the earth, and your name, like a delicious 
perfume, shall be wafted from clime to clime, as far as virtue 
can be known and loved. If, in possession of this influence 
and this honor, a neighboring nation should, contrary to all 
the rules of justice, commence hostilities against you, it will 
find you disciplined and ready, and, what is yet more effectual 



TELEMACHU3. BOOK XI. 395 

strength, beloved and succored when you are in danger ; your 
neighbors will be alarmed for themselves, and consider your 
preservation as essential to public safety. This will be your 
security, in comparison with which walls and ramparts are no 
defence ; this is true glory. But few kings have recognized 
and pursued it — few have not left it unknown behind them, 
to follow an illusive phantom, still more distant from the prize 
in proportion to their speed." 

"When Mentor had done speaking, Philocles fixed his eyes 
upon him with an astonishment that prevented reply ; then 
looking upon the king, he was delighted to perceive with what 
avidity ldomeneus received in his inmost heart the words that 
flowed, like a river of wisdom, from the stranger's lips. 

Thus Minerva, under the figure of Mentor, established the 
best laws and the w r isest principles of government at Salentum ; 
not so much that the kingdom of ldomeneus might flourish, as 
to show Telemachus, when he should return, a striking example 
of what may be effected by a wise government to render nations 
happy, and give to a king enduring glory. 



BOOK XII. 



Telemachus, in the camp of the allies, gains the friendship of Philoctetes 
who was not at first favorably disposed to him, on his father's account. 
Philoctetes relates his adventures, and introduces a particular account 
of the death of Hercules by the poisoned garment which the centaur 
Nessus had given to Dejanira. He relates how he obtained from that 
hero his poisoned arrows, without which the city of Troy could not have 
been taken ; how he was punished for betraying his secret, by various 
sufferings, in the island of Lemnos; and how Ulysses employed Neoptol- 
emus to engage him in the expedition against Troy, where he was cured 
of his wound. 



Courage, in the mean time, was displayed by Telemachus 
amid the perils of war. As soon as he had quitted Salentum, 
he applied himself with great diligence to gain the esteem of 
the old commanders, whose reputation and experience were 
consummate. Nestor, who had before seen him at Pylos, and 
who had always loved Ulysses, treated him as if he had been 
his son. He gave him many lessons of instruction, and illus- 
trated his precepts by examples ; he related all the adventures 
of his youth, and told him the most remarkable achievements 
which he had seen performed by the heroes of the preceding 
age. The memory of Nestor, who had lived to see three gen- 
erations, contained the history of ancient times with the same 
fidelity as an inscription upon marble or brass. 

Philoctetes did not at first regard Telemachus with the same 
kindness ; the enmity which he had so long cherished in his 
breast against Ulysses, prejudiced him against his son ; and he 
could not see without pain that the gods appeared to interest 
themselves in his fortunes, and to intend him a glory equal to 
that of the heroes by whom Troy had been overthrown. But 
the unaffected modesty of Telemachus at length surmounted 
his resentment, and he could not but love that virtue which 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK XII. 397 

appeared so amiable and sweet. He frequently took Telem- 
achus aside and talked to him with the most unreserved confi- 
dence. " My son," said he, " for I now make no scruple to 
call you so, I must confess that your father and I have been 
long enemies to each other. I acknowledge also that my en- 
mity was not softened by mutual danger and mutual success, 
for it continued unabated after we had laid Troy in ruins ; and 
when I saw you, I found it difficult to love even virtue in the 
son of Ulysses. I have often reproached myself for this reluct- 
ance, which, however, I still felt ; but virtue, when it is gentle, 
placid, ingenuous, and unassuming, must at last compel affec- 
tion and esteem." Philoctetes, in the course of these conver- 
sations, was insensibly led to acquaint Telemachus with what 
had given rise to the animosity between him and Ulysses. 

" It is necessary," said he, " that I should tell my story from 
the beginning. I was the inseparable companion of Hercules, 
the great example of divine virtue, the destroyer of monsters, 
whose prowess was a blessing to the earth, and compared with 
whom all other heroes are but as reeds to the oak or sparrows 
to the eagle. Love, a passion that has produced every species 
of calamity, was the cause of his misfortunes, and his misfor- 
tunes were the cause of mine. To this shameful passion the 
virtues of Hercules were opposed in vain ; and, after all his 
conquests, he was himself the sport of Cupid. He never re- 
membered, without a blush of ingenuous shame, his having 
laid by his dignity to spin in the chamber of Omphale, like the 
most abject and effeminate of men. He has frequently deplored 
this part of his life as having sullied his virtue, and obscured 
the glory of his labors. 

" Yet, such is the weakness and inconsistency of man, who 
thinks himself all-sufficient and yields without a struggle, that 
the great Hercules was again taken in the snare of love, and 
sank again into a captivity which he had so often remembered 
with indignation and contempt. He became enamored of De- 
janira, and would have been happy if he had continued con- 
stant in his passion for this woman, whom he made his wife. 
But the youthful beauty of Iole, to whom the Graces had given 



WORKS OF FENELON. 

all their charms, soon seduced him to a new passion. Dejanira 
became jealous, and unhappily recollected the fatal garment 
which had been given her by Nessus, the centaur, when he 
was dying, as a certain means of reviving the love of Hercules 
if he should ever neglect her for another. This garment had 
imbibed the blood of the centaur, to which the arrow that slew 
him had communicated its poison. The arrows of Hercules, 
you know, were dipped in the blood of the Lernsean hydra, 
which gave them a malignity so powerful that the slightest 
wound they could make was mortal. 

" As soon as Hercules had put on the garment, he felt the 
poison burn even to the marrow in the bone ; he cried out in 
his agony with a voice more than human ; the sound was 
returned by Mount OEta, the echo deepened in the valleys, and 
the sea itself seemed to be moved. The roar of the most 
furious bulls when they fight, was not so dreadful as the cries 
of Hercules. Lycas, who brought him the garment from 
Dejanira, happening unfortunately to approach him, he seized 
him in the distraction of his torments, and whirling him round, 
as a slinger whirls a stone that he would hurl with all his 
strength, he threw him from the top of the mountain, and, fall- 
ing into the sea, he was immediately transformed into a rock, 
which still retains the figure of a man, and which, still beaten 
by the surge, alarms the pilot, while he is yet distant from the 
shore. 1 

" After the fate of Lycas I thought I could trust Hercules 
no more, and therefore endeavored to conceal myself in the 
caverns of the rock. From this retreat I saw him, with one 
hand, root up the lofty pines that towered to the sky, and oaks 
which had repelled the storms of successive generations, and, 
with the other, endeavor to tear off the fatal garment which 
adhered like another skin, and seemed to be incorporated with 

1 We may here say, once for all, that this book of "Telemachus" is a close 
imitation of the Philoctetes of Sophocles ; in fact, some portions of it are 
almost a literal translation from the Greek tragedian. We do not regard it 
necessary to reprint most of " Philoctetes," to show the extent of F6nelon's 
imitation. — Ed. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XII. 399 

his body. In proportion as he tore it off, he tore off also the 
flesh ; his blood followed in a torrent, and the earth was im- 
purpled around him. But his virtue at length surmounted his 
sense of pain, and he cried out : ' Thou art witness, Philoc- 
tetes, to the torments which the gods inflict upon me, and 
they are just : I have offended heaven, and violated the vows 
of connubial love. After all my conquests, I have meanly 
given up my heart to forbilden beauty : I perish, and am con- 
tent to perish, that divine justice may be satisfied. But, alas ! 
my dear friend, whither art thou fled ? Transported by excess 
of pain, I have indeed destroyed unhappy Lycas, by an act of 
cruelty for which I abhor myself: he was a stranger to the 
poison that he brought me ; he committed no crime, he de- 
served no punishment. But could the sacred ties of friendship 
be forgotten ? could I attempt the life of Philoctetes ? My 
love for him can cease only with my life ; into his breast will 
I breathe my departing spirit, and to his care will I confide 
my ashes. Where art thou, then, my dear Philoctetes ? 
where art thou, Philoctetes, the only object of my hope on 
earth ?' 

" Struck with this tender expostulation, I rushed towards 
him, and he stretched out his arms to embrace me ; yet, before 
I reached him, he drew them back, lest he should kindle in my 
bosom the fatal fires that consumed his own. * Alas,' said he, 
1 even this consolation is denied me !' He then turned from 
me, and collecting all the trees that he had rooted up into a 
funeral pile upon the summit of the mountain, he ascended it 
with a kind of dreadful tranquillity : he spread under him the 
skin of the Nemean lion, which, while he was traversing the 
earth from one extremity to the other, destroying monsters 
and succoring distress, he had worn as a mantle, and reclining 
upon his club, he commanded me to set fire to the wood. 

" This command, though I trembled with horror, I could 
not refuse to obey, for his misery was so great that life was no 
longer a bounty of heaven. I feared that, in the extremity of 
his torment, he might do something unworthy of the virtue 
which had astonished the world. When he perceived that the 



400 WORKS OF FENELON. 

pile had taken fire, he said : * Now, my dear Philoctetes, I 
know" that thy friendship is sincere, for my honor is dearer to 
thee than my life. May thy reward be from heaven ! I give 
thee all I can bestow : these arrows, dipped in the blood of 
the Lernsean hydra, I valued more than all that I possessed, 
and they are thine. Thou knowest that the wounds which 
they make are mortal ; they rendered me invincible, and so 
they will render thee ; nor will any man dare to lift up his 
hand against thee. Remember that I die faithful to our friend- 
ship, and forget not how close 1 held thee to my heart. If 
thou art indeed touched with my misfortunes, there is still one 
consolation in thy power : promise to acquaint no man with 
my death, and never to reveal the place where thou shalt hide 
my ashes.' I promised, in an agony of tenderness and grief, 
and I consecrated my promise by an oath. A beam of joy 
sparkled in his eyes, but a sheet of flame immediately sur- 
rounded him, stifled his voice, and almost hid him from my 
sight. I caught, however, a glimpse of him. through the 
flame, and I perceived that his countenance was as serene as if 
he had been surrounded with festivity and joy at the banquet 
of a friend, covered with perfume, and crowned with flowers. 

"The flames quickly consumed his terrestrial and mortal 
part. Of that nature which he had received from his mother 
Alcmena, there were no remains; but he preserved, by the 
decree of Jove, that pure and immortal essence, that celestial 
flame, the true principle of life, which he had received from 
the father of the gods. With the gods, therefore, he drank 
immortality under the golden roofs of Olympus, and they gave 
him Hebe to wife — the lovely Hebe, the goddess of youth, 
who had filled the bowl of nectar to Jupiter, before that honor 
was bestowed upon Ganymede. 

" In the mean time, the arrows that had been given me as 
a pledge of superior prowess and fame, proved an inexhausti- 
ble source of misfortune. When the confederate princes of 
Greece undertook to revenge the wrong done to Menelaus by 
Paris, who had basely stolen away Helen, and to lay the king- 
dom of Priam in ashes, they learned from the oracle of Apollo, 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XH. 401 

that in this enterprise they would never succeed, if they did 
not take with them the arrows of Hercules. 

" Your father Ulysses, whose penetration and activity ren- 
dered him superior in every council, undertook to persuade me 
to accompany them to the siege of Troy, and to take the 
arrows of Hercules, which he believed to be in my possession, 
with me. It was now long since Hercules had appeared in 
tl\e world ; no exploit of the hero was related ; and monsters 
and robbers began to appear with impunity. The Greeks 
knew not what opinion to form concerning him ; some affirmed 
that he was dead ; others that he had gone to subdue the 
Scythians under the frozen bear. But Ulysses maintained 
that he was dead, and engaged to make me confess it. He 
came to me, while I was still lamenting the loss of my illus- 
trious friend with inconsolable sorrow ; he found it extremely 
difficult to speak to me ; for I avoided the sight of mankind, 
and could not think of quitting the deserts of Mount (Eta, 
where I had been witness to the death of Alcides : I was 
wholly employed in forming his image in my mind, and weep- 
ing at the remembrance of his sufferings, which every view of 
these mournful places renewed. But upon the lips of your 
father there was a sweet and irresistible eloquence ; he seemed 
to take an equal part in my affliction, and when I wept, he 
wept with me ; he gained upon my heart by an insensible 
approach, and obtained my confidence even before I knew it. 
He interested my tenderness for the Grecian princes, who had 
undertaken a just war, in which, without me, they could not 
be successful. He could not, however, draw from me the 
secret that I had sworn to keep ; but though I did not confess 
it, he had sufficient evidence that Hercules was dead, and he 
pressed me to tell him where I had concealed his ashes. 

" I could riot think of perjury without horror; and yet, alas ! 
I eluded the vow that I had made to Hercules and to heaven. 
I discovered the place where I had deposited the remains of 
the hero by striking it with my foot, and the gods have pun- 
ished me for the fraud. I then joined the confederates, who 
received me with as much joy as they would have received 



402 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Hercules himself. When we were on shore at the island of 
Lemnos, I was willing to show the Greeks what my arrows 
would do, and therefore prepared to shoot a deer which I 
saw rush into the forest ; but, by some accident, I let the shaft 
slip out of my hand, and, falling on my foot, it gave me a 
wound, of which I still feel the effects. I was immediately 
seized with the same pains that had destroyed Hercules, and 
the echoes of the island repeated my complaints day and night. 
A black and corrupted blood flowed incessantly from my 
wound, infected the air, and filled the camp with an intolera- 
ble stench. The whole army was struck with horror at my 
condition, and concluded it to be the just punishment of the 
gods. 

" Ulysses, who had engaged me in the expedition, was the 
first to abandon me, as I have since learned, because he pre- 
ferred victory and the common interest of Greece to private 
friendship and the punctilios of decorum. The horror of my 
wound, the infection that it spread, and the dreadful cries that 
it forced from me, produced such an effect upon the army that 
it was no longer possible to sacrifice in the camp. But when 
the Greeks abandoned me by the counsel of Ulysses, I con- 
sidered his policy as the most aggravated inhumanity, and the 
basest breach of faith. I was blinded by prejudice and self- 
love, and did not perceive that the wisest men were most 
against me, and that the gods themselves had become my 
enemies. 

" I remained, during almost the whole time that Troy was 
besieged, alone, without succor, without consolation, without 
hope, the victim of intolerable anguish, in a desolate island, 
where I saw no object but the rude productions of unculti- 
vated nature, and heard only the roaring of the surge that 
broke against the rocks. In one of the mountains of this 
desert I found a cavern in a rock, the summit of which towered 
to the skies and was divided into a fork, and at the bottom 
of which issued a spring of clear water. This cavern, my only 
dwelling, was the retreat of wild beasts of various kinds, to 
whose fury I was exposed night and day. I gathered a few 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XII. 4-03 

leaves together for my bed. My sole possessions were a 
wooden vessel of the rudest workmanship, and a few tattered 
garments which I wrapped round my wound to stanch the 
blood, and used also to clean it. In this place, forsaken of 
men and hateful to the gods, I sometimes endeavored to sus- 
pend the sense of my misery by shooting at the pigeons and 
other birds that flew around the rock. When I had brought 
one to the ground, I crawled with great pain and difficulty to 
take it up, that it might serve me for food : thus my own 
hands provided me subsistence. 

"The Greeks, indeed, left me some provisions when they 
quitted the island ; but these were soon exhausted. I dressed 
such as I procured at a fire which I kindled by striking a flint; 
and this kind of life, rude and forlorn as it was, would not have 
been unpleasing to me — the ingratitude and perfidy of man 
having reconciled me to solitude — if it had not been for. the 
pain that I endured from my wound, and the perpetual review 
of my singular misfortunes. * What !' said I to myself, ' seduce 
a man from his country upon pretence that he alone can 
avenge the cause of Greece, and then leave him in an unin- 
habited island when he is asleep, — for I was asleep when the 
Greeks deserted me. Judge in what an agony of consterna- 
tion and grief I awaked, and saw their fleet standing from the 
shore. I looked around me to find some gleam of comfort, 
but all was desolation and despair. 

" This island had neither port nor commerce; and was not 
only without inhabitants, but without visitors, except such as 
came by force. As none set foot on the shore but those 
who were driven there by tempests, I could hope for society 
only by shipwreck ; and I knew that if distress should force 
any unfortunate mariners upon the island, they would not dare 
to take me 'with them when they left it, lest they should in- 
cur the resentment, not only of the Greeks, but of the gods. 
I suffered remorse, and pain, and hunger, ten years ; I lan- 
guished with a wound that I could not cure, and hope itself 
was extinguished in my breast. 

" One day as I returned from seeking some medicinal herbs 



404- WORKS OF FENELON. 

for my wound, I was surprised to find at the entrance of my 
cave a young man of graceful appearance, but of a lofty and 
heroic mien. I took him, at the first glance, for Achilles, whom 
he greatly resembled in his features, aspect, and deportment : 
I was convinced of my mistake only by his age. I observed 
that his whole countenance expressed perplexity and compas- 
sion ; he was touched to see with what pain and difficulty I 
crawled along, and his heart melted at my complaints, which 
the echoes of the shore returned. 

" I called out while I was yet at a distance : ' stranger, 
what misfortune has cast thee upon this island forsaken of 
men ? I know thy habit to be Grecian, — a habit which, in 
spite of my wrongs, I love. Oh, let me hear thy voice, and 
once more find upon thy lips that language which I learned in 
infancy, and which this dreadful solitude has so long forbidden 
me to speak. Let not my appearance alarm you, for the 
wretch whom you behold is not an object of fear but of 

" The stranger had no sooner answered, * I am a Greek,' 
than I cried out : 'After such silence without associate, such 
|>ain without consolation, how sweet is the sound ! my son, 
what misfortune, what tempest, or rather what favorable gale, 
has brought thee hither to put an end to my sufferings?' He 
replied, 1 1 am of the island of Scyros, whither I am about to 
return, and it is said I am the son of Achilles : thou knowcst all.' 

" So brief a reply left my curiosity unsatisfied. ' son of 
Achilles,' said I, * the friend of my heart, who wert fostered by 
Lycomedes with the tenderness of a parent, whence art thou 
come, and what has brought thee to this place ?' * I come,' he 
replied, * from the siege of Troy.' * Thou wast not,' said I, ' in 
the first expedition.' ' Wast thou in it, then ?' said he. ' I 
perceive,' said I, ' that thou knowest neither the name nor the 
misfortunes of Philoctetes. Wretch that I am ! my persecu- 
tors insult me in my calamity. Greece is a stranger to my 
sufferings, which every moment increase. The Atrides have 
reduced me to this condition : may the gods reward them as 
they deserve!' 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XII. 405 

" I then related the manner in which I had been abandoned 
by the Greeks. As soon as Neoptolemus had heard my com- 
plaints, he made me the confidant of his own. ' After the death 
of Achilles,' said he, — 'How!' said I, 'is Achilles dead? 
Foi'give the tears that interrupt you, for I owe them to the 
memory of your father.' ' Such interruption,' replied Neoptol- 
emus, 4 is soothing to my sorrow : what can so much alleviate 
my loss as the tears of Philoctetes ?' 

" Neoptolemus then resumed his story. ' After the death ot 
Achilles,' said he, ' Ulysses and Phoenix came to me and tqld 
me that Troy could not be taken till I came to the siege. I 
was easily persuaded to go with them, for my grief for the 
death of Achilles, and a desire of inheriting his glory in so 
celebrated a war, were inducements that almost made persua- 
sion unnecessary. When I arrived at Sigeum, the whole army 
gathered around me : every one was ready to swear that he 
beheld Achilles; but, alas! Achilles was no more. In the 
presumption of youth and inexperience, I thought I might 
hope every thing from those who were so liberal of praise. I 
therefore demanded my father's arms of the Atrides, but their 
answer was a cruel disappointment of my expectations. ' You 
shall have,' said they, ' whatever else belonged to your father ; 
but his arms are allotted to Ulysses.' 

" ' This threw me into confusion, and tears, and rage. But 
Ulysses replied, without emotion : l You have not endured 
with us the dangers of a tedious siege ; you have not merited 
such arms; you have demanded them too proudly, and they 
shall never be yours.' My right being thus unjustly wrested 
from me, I am returning to the isle of Scyros, yet more in- 
censed against the Atrides than against Ulysses. To all who 
are their enemies may the gods be friends ! And now, Philoc- 
tetes, I have told thee all.' 

u I then asked Neoptolemus how it happened that Ajax, the 
son of Telamon, did not interpose to prevent such injustice? 
1 Ajax,' said he, ' is dead.' ' Is Ajax dead,' said I, ' and Ulysses 
alive and prosperous?' I then inquired after Antilochus, the 
son of Nestor ; and Patroclus, the favorite of Achilles. ' They 



400 WORKS OF FENELON. 

also,' said he, ' are dead.' ' Alas !' said I, * are Antilochus and 
Patroclus dead ? How does war, with unrelenting and undis- 
tinguishing destruction, sweep away the righteous and spare 
the wicked ! TJlysses lives ; and so, I doubt not, does Thersites. 
Such is the ordination of the gods, and yet we still honor th.jm 
with praise.' 

" While I was thus burning with resentment against your 
father, Neoptolemus continued to deceive me. * I am going,' 
said he, with a mournful accent, * to live content in the isle of 
Scyros, which, though uncultivated and obscure, is yet far from 
the armies of Greece, where evil prevails over good. Farewell ! 
may the gods vouchsafe to restore thy health !' 

" ' my son,' said I, ' I conjure thee by the manes of thy 
father, by thy mother, and by all that is dear to thee upon 
earth, not to leave me alone in this extremity of pain and sor- 
row. I know I shall be a burden to you, but it would disgrace 
your humanity to leave me here. Place me in the prow, the 
stern, or even the hold of- your vessel, wherever I shall least 
offend you. Noble minds alone know how much glory there 
is in doing good. Do not abandon me in a desert, where there 
are no traces of men ; take me with you to Scyros, or leave 
me at Eubsea, where I shall be near to Mount (Eta, to Trachin, 
and the pleasing banks of Thessalian Sperchius, or send me 
back to my father. Alas ! I fear that my father may be dead. 
I sent to him for a vessel, which has never arrived, and it is 
therefore certain, either that he is dead, or that those who 
promised to acquaint him with my distress have betrayed their 
trust. My last hope is in thee, O my son ! Consider the un- 
certainty of all sublunary things : the prosperous should fear 
to abuse prosperity, and never fail to succor the distress which 
they are liable to feel.' 

" Such, in the intolerable anguish of my mind, was my 
address to Neoptolemus, and he promised to take me with 
him. My heart then leaped for joy. ' happy day !' I ex- 
claimed ; ' amiable Neoptolemus ! worthy to inherit the 
glory of thy father ! Ye dear companions, with whom I shall 
return to the world of life, suffer me to bid this mournful 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK Xn. 407 

retreat farewell. See where I have lived, and consider what I 
have endured. My sufferings have been more than another 
could sustain ; but I was instructed by necessity, and she 
teaches what otherwise could not be known. Those who are 
without sufferings are without knowledge; they distinguish 
neither good nor evil ; they are alike ignorant of mankind and 
of themselves.' After this effusion of my heart, I took my 
bow and arrows in my hand. 

" Neoptolemus then requested that I would permit him to 
kiss the celebrated arms that had been consecrated by the in- 
vincible Hercules. ' To you,' said I, ' all things are permitted ; 
you, my son, restore me to light and life, to my country, my 
father, my friends, and myself: you may touch these arms, 
and boast that you are the only Greek who deserves to touch 
them.' Neoptolemus immediately came into my cell to admire 
my arrows. 

" At this moment a sudden pang totally suspended my 
faculties : I no longer knew what I did, but called for a sword, 
that I might cut off my foot. I cried out for death, and re- 
proached it with delay. ' Burn me,' said I to Neoptolemus, 
1 this moment, as I burned the son of Jove upon Mount (Eta. 
O earth, receive a dying wretch, who shall never more rise 
from thy bosom !' I fell immediately to the ground without 
appearance of life, — a state in which these fits of pain usually 
left me : a profuse sweat at length relieved me, and a black 
and corrupted blood flowed from my wound. While I con- 
tinued insensible, it would have been easy for Neoptolemus to 
have carried off my arms ; but he was the son of Achilles, and 
his nature was superior to fraud. 

" When I recovered, I perceived great confusion in his coun- 
tenance : he sighed like a man new to dissimulation, and prac- 
tising it with violence to himself. ' What !' said I, ' do you: 
meditate to take advantage of my infirmity ?' ' You must go- 
with me,' said he, ' to the siege of Troy.' ' What do I hear !' 
said I ; 'I am betrayed. O my son, give me back the bow ; 
to withhold it is to rob me of life. Alas! he answers me 
nothing ; he looks steadily upon me, without emotion ; over 



408 WORKS OF FENELON. 

his heart I have no power. Ye winding shores ! ye promon- 
tories that overhang the deep! ye broken rocks! ye savage 
beasts that haunt these scenes of desolation ! I complain to 
you ; for, besides you, there are none to whom I can complain : 
to you my groans are familiar. Must I be thus betrayed by 
the son of Achilles ? He robs me of the bow, which the hand 
of Hercules has made sacred ; he would drag me to the camp 
of the Greeks, as a trophy of the war ; he sees not that his 
victory is not over the living but the dead, a shade, a vain 
phantom ! Oh, that he had assailed me when my vigor was 
unimpaired; but even now he has taken me by surprise. 
What expedient shall I try ? Restore what thou hast taken ; 
restore my arms, O my son ! and let thy conduct be worthy 
of thy father and of thyself. What dost thou answer ? Thou 
art inexorably silent. To thee, thou barren rock, I once more 
return, naked and miserable, forlorn and destitute! In this 
cave I shall perish alone, for, having no weapon to destroy the 
beasts, the beasts will inevitably devour me ; and why should 
I desire to live ? But as to thee, my son, the mark of wicked- 
ness is not upon thee ; thou art surely the instrument of an- 
other's hand. Restore my arms, and leave me to my fate.' 

"Neoptolemus was touched with my distress; the tear 
started to his eye, and he sighed to himself: ' Would that 
I had still continued at Scyros!' At this moment I cried 
out : ' What do I see ! surely that is Ulysses !' Immediately 
the voice of Ulysses confirmed it, and he answered, ' It is I.' 
If the gloomy dominions of Pluto had been disclosed before 
me, and I had suddenly beheld the shades of Tartarus, which 
the gods themselves cannot see without dread, I should not 
have been seized with greater horror. I cried out again : * I call 
thee to witness, O earth of Lemnos ! O sun ! dost thou behold 
and suffer this ?' Ulysses answered without emotion : * T'his is 
ordained by Jupiter, and I execute his will.' ' Darest thou,' 
said I, ' profane the name of Jove with unhallowed lips ? Hast 
thou not compelled this youth to practise a fraud, which his 
soul abhors ?' * We come,' replied Ulysses, ' neither to deceive 
nor to injure you ; but to deliver you from solitude and misery, 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XII. 409 

to heal your wound, and to give you the glory of subverting 
Troy, and restore you in safety to your native country. It is 
thyself, and not Ulysses, that is the enemy of Philoctetes.' 

" I answered only by reproaches and insult. * Since thou 
hast abandoned me upon this inhospitable coast,' said I, * why 
hast thou interrupted such rest as it can give ? Go, and secure 
to thyself the glory of battle and the delights of peace ; enjoy 
the sweets of prosperity with the Atrides, and leave pain and 
sorrow to me. Why shouldst thou compel me to go with 
thee ? I am sunk into nothing : I am dead already. Thou 
wast once of opinion that I ought to be left here ; that my 
complaints, and the infection of my wound, would interrupt 
the sacrifices of the gods: why is not this thy opinion now? 

Thou author of all my misery ! may the gods But the 

gods hear me not ; they take part with my enemy ! O my 
country ! these eyes shall behold thee no more ! ye gods ! 
if there is yet one among you so just as to compassionate my 
wrongs, avenge them ! punish Ulysses, and I shall believe that 
I am whole.' 

" While I was thus indulging an impotent rage, your father 
looked upon me with a calm compassion, which, instead of 
resenting the intemperate sallies of a wretch distracted by mis- 
fortune, makes allowance for his infirmity, and bears with his 
excess. He stood silent and unmoved, in the stability of his 
wisdom, till my passion should be exhausted by its own vio- 
lence, as the summit of a rock stands unshaken while it is 
beaten by the winds, which at length wearied by their idle 
fury are heard no more. He knew that all attempts to reduce 
the passions to reason are ineffectual till their violence is past ; 
when I paused, therefore, and not before, he said : ' Where 
are now, Philoctetes, thy reason and thy courage ? This is 
the moment in which they can most avail thee. If thou shalt 
refuse to follow us, in order to fulfil the great designs which 
Jupiter has formed for thee, farewell : thou art not worthy to 
achieve the deliverance of Greece or the destruction of Troy. 
Live still an exile in Lemnos; these arms which I have se- 
cured, will obtain a glory for Ulysses that was designed for thee. 
18 



410 WORKS OF FENELON. 

Let us depart, Neoptolemus ; argument is lost upon him : 
compassion for an individual should not make us give up the 
common interest of Greece.' 

" This threw me into a new transport of rage, and I was like 
a lioness when she is robbed of her young, and makes the 
woods echo with her roar. ' O cave,' said I, ' thou shalt not 
henceforth be forsaken ; I will enter thee as my grave forever. 
Receive me, O mansion of sorrow ! receive me to famine and 
despair ! Oh for a sword, that I might die at once ! Oh that 
the birds of prey would devour me ! my arrows shall pierce 
them no more. inestimable bow, consecrated by the hand 
of the soh of Jove ! Hercules, if thou art still conscious of 
what passes upon earth, does not thy breast burn with indigna- 
tion ? This bow is no longer in the possession of thy friend, 
but in the profane and faithless hands of Ulysses. Come 
without fear, ye birds of prey, and ye beasts of the desert, to 
your ancient dwelling ; there are now no fatal arrows in my 
hand. Wretch that I am, I can wound you no more : come 
then and devour me. Or rather, inexorable Jove ! let thy 
thunders crush me to nothing.' 

" Your father, having tried every other art of persuasion in 
vain, thought it best to return me my arms ; he therefore made 
a sign to Neoptolemus for that purpose, who instantly put the 
arrows and the bow into my hand. ' Thou art, indeed,' said I, 
4 the son of Achilles, and worthy of his blood ; but stand aside, 
that 1 may pierce my enemy to the heart.' I then drew an 
arrow against your father, but Neoptolemus held my hand. 
* Your anger,' said he, ' distracts you ; you are not conscious of 
the enormity you would commit.' 

"But Ulysses stood equally unmoved against danger and 
reproach. His patience and intrepidity struck me with rever- 
ence and admiration. I was ashamed of the transport which 
hurried me to use for his destruction the arms that he had 
restored; my resentment, however, was not yet wholly ap- 
peased, and I was grieved beyond comfort to have received 
weapons from a man whom I could not love. But my atten- 
tion was now engaged by Neoptolemus. 'Know,' said he, 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XII. 411 

that the divine Ilelenus, the son of Priam, came to ns from 
the city, impelled by the command and inspiration of the gods, 
and disclosed to us the secrets of futurity. * Unhappy Troy,' 
said he, 4 must fall, but not till he who bears the shafts 6f Her- 
cules shall come against her. Under the walls of Troy only 
can he be cured: the sons of JKsculapius shall give him 
health.' 

" At this moment I felt my heart divided ; I was touched 
with the ingenuous simplicity of Neoptolemus, and the honesty 
with which he had restored my bow ; but I could not bear the 
thought of submitting to Ulysses, and a false shame held me 
some time in suspense. * Will not the world,' said I, ' despise 
me if I become at last the associate of Ulysses and the 
Atrides V 

" While I stood thus torpid in suspense, I was suddenly 
roused by a voice that was more than human : looking up, I 
saw Hercules; he descended in a shining cloud, and was sur- 
rounded with rays of glory. He was easily distinguished by 
his strong features, his robust form, and the graceful simplicity 
of his gesture ; but in his present appearance there was a lofti- 
ness and dignity not equally conspicuous when he was destroy- 
ing monsters upon earth. 

" ' Thou nearest,' said he, ' and thou beholdest Hercules. I 
have descended from Olympus to acquaint thee with the com- 
mands of Jove. Thou knowest by what labors I acquired 
immortality : if thou wouldst follow me in the path of glory, 
the son of Achilles must be now thy guide. Thy wound shall 
be healed ; Paris, who has filled the world with calamity, shall 
fall by my arrows from thy hand. When Troy shall be taken, 
thou shalt send costly spoils to Poeas, thy father, upon Mount 
(Eta : he shall place them upon my tomb as a monument of 
the victory which my arrows obtained. Thou canst not, 
son of Achilles, conquer without Philoctetes, nor can Philoc- 
tetes conquer without thee. Go, then, like two lions who 
chase their prey together. Thou, Philoctetes, shalt be healed 
by the skill of JEsculapius at Troy. But, above all things, 
keep alive in your hearts the love and reverence of the gods ; 



4:12 WORKS OF FENELON. 

all other passions and pleasures shall perish with their objects; 
these only are immortal and divine.' 

" At these words I cried out in a transport of joy : * The 
night i§ past ! the dawn breaks upon me ! O cheering light, 
after these years of darkness art thou again returned ? I feel 
thy influence, and I follow thy guiding ray. I quit these 
scenes, and stay only to bid them farewell. Farewell, my 
grotto ! Ye nymphs that haunt these dewy fields, farewell ! I 
shall hear the sullen sound of these inexorable waves no more. 
Farewell, ye cliffs, where I have shivered in the tempest and 
been drenched in the rain ! Farewell, ye rocks, whose echoes 
have so often repeated my complaints ! Farewell, ye sweet 
fountains, which my sufferings embittered to me ! and thou 
uncultivated soil, farewell ! I leave you ; but to my departure 
be propitious, since I follow the voice of friendship and the 
gods !' 

" We then set sail from the coast, and arrived in the Grecian 
army before the walls of Troy. Machaon and Podalirius, by 
the sacred science of their father, JEsculapius, healed my 
wound, at least restored me to the state you see. I am free 
from pain, and I have recovered my strength ; but I am still 
somewhat lame. I brought Paris to the ground like a timid 
fawn that is pierced by the arrows of the huntsman, and the 
towers of Ilium were soon in ashes. All that followed, you 
know already. But the remembrance of my sufferings, not- 
withstanding the success and glory that followed, still left 
upon my mind an aversion to Ulysses which all his virtues 
could not surmount ; but, loving irresistibly his resemblance in 
a son, my enmity to the father insensibly relents." 



BOOK XIII 



Telemachus quarrels with Phalanthus about some prisoners, to which each 
of them lays claim : he fights and vanquishes Hippias, who, despising his 
youth, had seized the prisoners in question for his brother; but being 
afterwards ashamed of his victory, he laments in secret his rashness and 
indiscretion, for which he is very desirous to atone. At the same time 
Adrastus. king of the Daunians, being informed that the allies were wholly 
taken up in reconciling Telemachus and Hippias, marches to attack them 
by surprise. After having seized a hundred of their vessels to trans- 
port his own troops to their camp, he first sets it on fire, and then falls 
upon Phalanthus' quarters. Phalanthus himself is desperately wounded, 
and his hrother Hippias slain. Telemachus, having put on his divine 
armor, runs to the assistance of Phalanthus; he kills Iphicles, the son 
of Adrastus, repulses the victorious enemy, and would have put an end 
to the war if a tempest had not intervened. Telemachus orders the 
wounded to be carried off, and takes great care of them, particularly ot 
Phalanthus. He perforins the solemnities of the funeral of Hippias him- 
self, and having collected his ashes in a golden urn, presents them to 
his brother. 



While Philoctetes proceeded thus with the relation of his 
adventures, Telemachus stood suspended and immovable. 
His eyes were fixed upon the hero that spoke. All the pas- 
sions which had agitated Hercules, Philoctetes, Ulysses, and 
Neoptolemus, appeared by turns in his countenance, as they 
were successively described in the course of the narration. 
Sometimes he interrupted Philoctetes by a sudden and in- 
voluntary exclamation ; sometimes he appeared to be absorbed 
in thought, like a man who thinks profoundly on the course of 
events. When Philoctetes described the confusion of Neoptol- 
emus in his first attempts at dissimulation, the same confusion 
appeared in Telemachus, and he might, in that moment, have 
been taken for Neoptolemus himself. 

The allied army marched in good order against Adrastus, 



4:14 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the tyrant of Daunia, a contemner of the gods and a deceiver 
of men. Telemachus found it very difficult to behave without 
giving offence among so many princes who were jealous of 
each other. It was necessary that he should give cause of 
suspicion to none, and that he should conciliate the good- 
will of all. There was great goodness and sincerity in his 
disposition, but he was not naturally obliging, and gave him- 
self little trouble to please others : he was not fond of money, 
yet he knew not how to give it away. Thus, with an elevated 
mind, and a general disposition" to do good, he appeared to be 
neither kind nor liberal, to be neither sensible of friendship, 
nor grateful for favors, nor attentive to merit. He indulged 
his humor without the least regard to the opinions of others. 
His mother, Penelope, notwithstanding the care of Mentor, 
had encouraged a pride of birth and lofty demeanor, which 
cast a shade over all his good qualities. He considered him- 
self as of a nature superior to the rest of men, whom he 
seemed to think the gods had placed upon the earth merely 
for his pleasure and service, to anticipate all his desires, and 
refer all to him as to a visible divinity. To serve him Avas, in his 
opinion, a happiness that sufficiently recompensed the service. 
Nothing that he required was to be supposed impossible ; and 
at the least delay the impetuous ardor of his temper burst into 
a flame. 

Those who should have seen him thus unguarded and un- 
restrained, would have concluded him incapable of loving any 
thino^ but himself, and sensible only to the gratification of his 
own appetites and vanity ; but this indifference for others, and 
perpetual attention to himself, were merely the effect of the 
continual agitation that he suffered from the violence of his 
passions. He had been flattered and humored by his mother 
from the cradle, and was a striking example of the disadvan- 
tages of high birth. Misfortune had not yet abated either his 
haughtiness or impetuosity ; in every state of dereliction and 
distress, he had still looked round him with disdain ; and his 
pride, like the palm, still rose under every depression. 

While he was with Mentor, his faults did not manifest them- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XTTT. 415 

selves, and they became less and less every day. Like a fiery 
steftd, that, in his course, disdains the rock, the precipice, and 
the torrent, and is obedient only to one commanding voice and 
one guiding hand, Telemachus, impelled by a noble ardor, 
could be restrained only by Mentor. But Mentor could arrest 
him with a look in the midst of his career : he knew, he felt, 
the meaning of his eye the moment that it glanced upon him ; 
his heart became sensible to virtue, and his countenance soft- 
ened into serenity and complaisance ; the rebellious tempest is 
not more suddenly rebuked into peace, when Neptune lifts his 
trident and frowns upon the deep. 

When Telemachus was left to himself, all his passions, which 
had been restrained like the course of a torrent by a mound, 
burst away with yet greater violence. He could not suffer the 
arrogance of the Lacedemonians, nor that of Phalanthus their 
commander. This colony, which had founded Tarentum, con- 
sisted of young men, who, having been born during the siege of 
Troy, had received no education ; their illegitimate birth, the 
dissoluteness of their mothers, and the licentiousness in which 
they had been brought up, gave them an air of savage barbarity. 
They resembled rather a band of robbers than a Grecian colony. 

Phalanthus took every opportunity to show his contempt of 
Telemachus ; he frequently interrupted him in their public 
councils, and treated his advice as the crude notions of puerile 
inexperience ; he also frequently made him the subject of his 
raillery, as a feeble and effeminate youth : he pointed out his 
slightest failings to the chiefs, and was perpetually busy in 
fomenting jealousies, and rendering the haughty manner of 
Telemachus odious to the allies. 

Telemachus having one day taken some Daunians prisoners, 
Phalanthus pretended that they belonged to him, because, as 
he said, he had defeated the party at the head of his Lacede- 
monians ; and Telemachus, finding them already vanquished 
and put to flight, had nothing to do but to give quarter to 
those that threw down their arms, and lead them to the camp. 
Telemachus, on the contrary, insisted that he had prevented 
Phalanthus from being defeated by that very party, and had 



416 WORKS OF FENELON. 

turned the scale in his favor. This question was disputed be- 
fore an assembly of all the princes of the alliance. Telemachus 
being so far provoked as to threaten Phalanthus, they would 
immediately have fought if the assembly had not interposed. 

Phalanthus had a brother, whose name was Hippias, and 
who was much celebrated for his courage, strength, and dex- 
terity. " Pollux," said the Tarentines, " could not wield the 
cestus better, nor could Castor surpass him in the management 
of a horse ; he had almost the stature and the strength of Her 
cules." He was the terror of the whole army, for he was yet 
more petulant and brutal than courageous and strong. 

Hippias, having remarked the haughtiness with which Te- 
lemachus had menaced his brother, went, in great haste, to 
carry off the prisoners to Tarentnm, without waiting for the 
determination of the assembly. Telemachus, who was privately 
informed of it, rushed out after him, burning with rage. He 
ran eagerly from one part of the camp to the other, like a boar, 
who, being wounded in the chase, turns enraged upon the 
hunter. His eye looked round for his enemy, and his hand 
shook the spear which he was impatient to hurl against him. 
He found him at length, and at the sight of him he was trans- 
ported with new fury. He was no longer Telemachus, a noble 
youth, whose mind Minerva, under the form of Mentor, had 
enriched with wisdom, but an enraged lion, or a lunatic, urged 
on by desperate phrensy. 

"Stay!" he cried to Hippias; "thou basest of mankind! 
stay ; and let us see if thou canst wrest from me the spoils of 
those whom I have overcome. Thou shalt not carry them to 
Tarentum. Thou shalt, this moment, descend to the gloomy 
borders of the Styx !" His spear instantly followed his words, 
but he threw it with so much fury that he could take no aim, 
and it fell to the ground, wide of Hippias. He then drew his 
sword, of which the guard was gold, and which had been given 
him by Laertes, when he departed from Ithaca, as a pledge of 
his affection. Laertes had used it with glory, when he himself 
was young, and it had been stained with the blood of many 
chiefs of Epirus, during a war in which Laertes had been vie- 



TELEMACHTTS. BOOK XIH. 417 

torious. The sword was scarcely drawn by Telemachus, when 
Hippias, willing to avail himself of his superior strength, rushed 
upon him and endeavored to force it from his hand. The 
weapon broke in the contest. They then seized each other, 
and were in a moment locked together. They appeared like 
two savage beasts, striving to tear each other in pieces ; fire 
sparkled in their eyes ; their bodies are now contracted, and 
now extended ; they now stoop, and now rise ; they spring 
furiously upon each other, and pant with the thirst of blood. 
Thus they engaged, foot to foot, hand to hand ; and their 
limbs were so entwined with each other that they seemed to 
belong to one body. The advantage, at last, inclined to Hip- 
pias, to whom maturity of years had given firmness and a 
strength which to the tender age of Telemachus was wanting. 
His breath now failed him, and his knees trembled. Hippias 
perceiving his weakness and redoubling his efforts, the fate of 
Telemachus would have been decided, and he would have 
suffered the punishment due to his passion and temerity, if 
Minerva, who still watched over him from afar, and suffered 
him to fall into this extremity of danger only for his instruc- 
tion, had not determined the victory in his favor. 

She did not herself quit the palace of Salentum, but she sent 
Iris, the swift messenger of the gods, who, spreading her light 
wings to the air, divided the unbounded space above, leaving 
behind her a long train of light, which painted a cloud of a 
thousand dyes. 1 She descended not to the earth till she came 
to the sea-shore, where the innumerable army of the allies was 
encamped. She saw the contest at a distance, and marked the 
violence and fury of the two combatants ; she perceived the 
danger of Telemachus, and trembled with apprehension ; she 
approached in a thin vapor, which she had condensed into a 
cloud. At the moment when Hippias, conscious of his superior 
strength, believed his victory to be secure, she covered the 



i " Dewy Iris, drawing a thousand various colors from the opposite sun, 
shoots downward through the sky on saffron wings." — Virgil, ^Eneid^ iv. 
700. 

18* 



418 WORKS OF FENELON. 

young charge of Minerva with the shield of the goddess, which 
for this purpose had been confided to her care. Telemachus, 
who was exhausted and fainting, instantly became sensible of 
new vigor. In proportion as he revived, the strength and 
courage of Hippias declined ; he was conscious of something 
invisible and divine, which overwhelmed and confounded him 
Telemachus now pressed him closer, and assailed him some- 
times in one posture, and sometimes in another ; he staggered 
him, and left him not a moment's respite to recover ; he at 
length threw him down, and fell upon him. An oak of Mount 
Ida, which at last yields to a thousand strokes, that have made 
the depths of the forest resound, falls' not with a more dread- 
ful noise than Hippias ; the earth groaned beneath him, and 
all that was around him shook. 

But the aegis of Minerva infused into Telemachus wisdom as 
well as strength. At the moment when Hippias fell under him, 
he was touched with a sense of the fault he had committed by 
attacking the brother of one of the confederate princes whom 
he had taken arms to assist. He recollected the counsels of 
Mentor, and they covered him with confusion ; he was ashamed 
of his victory, and conscious that he ought to have been van- 
quished. In the mean time, Phalanthus, transported with 
rage, ran to the succor of his brother, and would have pierced 
Telemachus with the spear that he carried in his hand, if he 
had not feared to pierce Hippias also, whom Telemachus held 
under him in the dust. The son of Ulysses might then easily 
have taken the life of his enemy, but his anger was appeased, 
and he thought only of atoning for his rashness by showing 
his moderation. Getting up, therefore, from his antagonist he 
said : " I am satisfied, Hippias, with having taught thee not 
to despise my youth ; I give thee life, and I admire thy 
valor and thy strength. The gods have protected me ; yield, 
therefore, to. the power of the gods. Henceforth, let us 



1 " Falls to the ground of himself with his heavy bulk, as sometimes on 
Erymanthus, or spacious Ida, a hollow pine torn from the roots tumbles 
down at once." — Virgil, jEneid, v. 447. 



: 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 419 

think onl) of uniting our strength against the common 
enemy." 

While Telemachus was speaking, Hippias rose from the 
ground covered with dust and blood, burning with shame and 
indignation. Phalanthus did not dare to take the life of him 
who had so generously given life to his brother ; he was con- 
fused and scarcely knew what he would do. All the princes 
of the alliance ran to the place and carried off Telemachus on 
one side, and on the other Phalanthus with Hippias, who, hav- 
ing lost ail his arrogance, kept his eyes fixed upon the ground. 
The whole army was struck with astonishment to find that 
Telemachus, a youth of so tender an age, who had not yet ac- 
quired the full strength of a man, had been able to prevail 
against Hippias, who in strength and stature resembled the 
giants, those children of the earth who once attempted to dis- 
possess the gods of Olympus. 

Telemachus, however, was far from enjoying his victory. 
While the camp was resounding with his praise he retired to 
his tent, overwhelmed with the sense of his fault, and wishing 
to escape from himself. He bewailed the impetuosity of his 
temper, abhorred himself for the injurious extravagancies 
which his passions hurried him to commit, and became con- 
scious of the vanity, the weakness, and the meanness in his 
unbounded pride. He felt that true greatness consists only in 
moderation, justice, modesty, and humanity. He saw his de- 
fects, but he did not dare to hope that, after being so often be- 
trayed into the same faults, he should be ever able to correct 
them. He was at war with himself, and in the anguish of the 
conflict his complaints were like the roaring of a lion. 

Two days he remained alone in his tent, tormented by self- 
reproach and ashamed to return back to society. " How can 
I," said he, " again dare to look Mentor in the face ? Am I 
the son of Ulysses, the wisest and most patient of men ? Have 
I come to fill the camp of the allies with dissension and dis- 
order ? Is it their blood or that of their enemies, the Dauni- 
ans, that I ought to spill ? I have been rash even to madness, 
so that I knew not even how to hurl a spear ; I exposed myself 



420 WORKS OF FENELON. 

to danger and disgrace by engaging Hippias with inferior 
strength, and had reason to expect nothing less than death 
with the dishonor of being vanquished. And what if I had 
thus died ? My faults would have perished with me, and the 
turbulent pride, the thoughtless presumption of Telemachus, 
would no longer have disgraced the name of Ulysses, or the 
counsels of Mentor. Oh, that I could but hope never more to 
do what now, with unutterable anguish, I repent having done ! 
I should then, indeed, be happy ; but, alas ! before the sun thai 
is now risen shall descend, I shall, with the full consent of ni} 
will, repeat the very same faults that I now regret with shame 
and horror. fatal victory ! O mortifying praise ! at once 
the memorial and reproach of my folly !" 

While he was thus alone and inconsolable, he was visited by 
Nestor and Philoctetes. Nestor had intended to convince him 
of his fault, but the wise old man, instantly perceiving his dis- 
tress and contrition, changed his remonstrances into consolation, 
and instead of reproving his misconduct, endeavored to soothe 
his despair. 

This quarrel retarded the confederates in their expedition ; 
for they could not march against their enemies till they had 
reconciled Telemachus to Phalanthus and Hippias. They were 
in continual dread lest the Tarentines should fall upon the 
company of young Cretans who had followed Telemachus to 
the war. Every thing was thrown into confusion, merely by 
the folly of Telemachus; and Telemachus, who saw how much 
mischief he had caused already, and how much more might 
follow from his indiscretion, gave himself up to remorse and 
sorrow. The princes were extremely embarrassed ; they did 
not dare to put the army in motion, lest the Tarentines of 
Phalanthus and the Cretans of Telemachus should fall upon 
each other in their march. It was with great difficulty that 
they were restrained even in the camp, where a strict watch 
was kept over them. Nestor and Philoctetes were continually 
passing and repassing between the tents of Telemachus and 
Phalanthus. Phalanthus was implacable, he had an obdurate 
ferocity in his nature, and being perpetually stimulated to re- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 421 

venge by Hippias, whose discourse was full of rage and indig- 
nation, he was neither moved by the eloquence of Nestor nor 
the authority of Philoctetes. Telemachus was more gentle, 
but he was overwhelmed with grief, and refused all consolation. 

While the princes were in this perplexity the troops were 
struck with consternation : the camp appeared like a house in 
which the father of the family, the support of his relations and 
the hope of his children, is just dead. 

In the midst of this distress and disorder the army was sud- 
denly alarmed by a confused and dreadful noise, the rattling of 
chariots, the clash of arms, the neighing of horses, and the 
cries of men, — some victorious, and urging the slaughter ; some 
flying and terrified ; some wounded and dying. The dust rose 
as in a whirlwind, and formed a cloud that obscured the sky 
and surrounded the camp. In a few moments with this dust 
was mixed a thick smoke, which polluted the air and prevented 
respiration. Soon after was heard a hollow noise, like the 
roaring of Mount JStna, when her fires are urged by Vulcan 
and the Cyclops, who forge thunder for the father of the gods. 
Terror seized all hearts. 

Adrastus, vigilant and indefatigable, had surprised the allies 
in their camp. He had concealed his own march, and, per- 
fectly acquainted with theirs, he had, with incredible expedi- 
tion and labor, marched around a mountain of very difficult 
access, the passes of which had been secured by the allies. 
Not dreaming that he could march round it, and knowing that 
the defiles by which alone it could be passed were in their 
hands, they not only imagined themselves to be in perfect 
security, but had formed a design to' march through these 
defiles, and fall upon their enemy behind the mountain, when 
some auxiliaries which they expected should come up. Of 
this design, Adrastus, who spared no money to discover the 
secrets of an enemy, had gained intelligence ; for Nestor and 
Philoctetes, notwithstanding their wisdom and experience, 
were not sufficiently careful to conceal their undertakings. 
Nestor, who was in a declining age, took too much pleasure in 
telling what he thought would procure him applause ; Philoc- 



42*2 WORKS OF FENELON. 

tetes was naturally less talkative, but he was hasty, and the 
slightest provocation would betray him into the discovery of 
what he had determined to conceal. Artful people, therefore, 
soon found the way to unlock his breast, and get possession of 
whatever it contained. Nothing more was necessary than to 
make him angry ; he would then lose all command of himself, 
express his resentment by menaces, and boast that he had cer- 
tain means to accomplish his purposes. If this was ever so 
slightly doubted, he would immediately disclose his project, and 
give up the dearest secret of his heart. Thus did this great 
commander resemble a cracked vessel, which, however precious 
its material, suffers the liquors that are intrusted to it to drain 
away. 

Those who had been corrupted by the money of Adrastus 
did not fail to take advantage of the weakness of these two 
kings. They flattered Nestor with excessive and perpetual 
praise ; they recounted the victories he had won, expatiated 
upon his foresight, and never grew weary of applauding him. 
On the other side, they were continually laying snares for the 
impatience of Philoctetes ; they talked to him of nothing but 
difficulties, crosses, dangers, inconveniences, and irremediable 
mistakes. The moment his natural impetuosity was moved, 
his wisdom forsook him, and he was no longer the same man. 

Telemachus, notwithstanding his faults, was much better 
qualified to keep a secret ; he had acquired a habit of secrecy 
by misfortunes, and by the necessity he had been under of con- 
cealing, even in his infancy, his thoughts from the suitors of 
Penelope. He had the art of Seeping a secret without false- 
hood, and even without appearing to have a secert, by that 
reserved and mysterious air which generally distinguishes 
secretive people. A secret did not appear to lay him under 
the least difficulty or restraint ; he seemed to be always un- 
constrained, easy, and open, as if his heart was upon his lips. 
He said all that might be said safely, with the greatest freedom 
and unconcern, but he knew, with the utmost precision, where 
to stop, and could, without the least appearance of design, 
avoid whatever glanced, however obliquely, at what he would 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 423 

conceal. His heart, therefore, was wholly inaccessible, and 
his best friends knew only what he thought was necessary to 
enable them to give him advice, except Mentor alone, from 
whom he concealed nothing. In other friends he placed dif- 
ferent degrees of confidence, in proportion as he experienced 
their fidelity and wisdom. 

Telemachus had often observed that the resolutions of the 
council were too generally known in the camp, and had com- 
plained of it to Nestor and Philoctetes, who did not treat it 
with the attention it deserved. Old men are too often inflexi- 
ble, for long habit scarcely leaves them the power of choice. 
The faults of age are hopeless : as the trunk of an old knotty 
tree, if it is crooked, must be crooked forever, so men, after 
a certain age, lose their pliancy, and become fixed in habits 
which have grown old with them and become, as it were, part 
of their constitution. They are sometimes sensible of these 
habits, but, at the same time, are also sensible that they can- 
not be broken, and sigh over their infirmity in vain ; youth is 
the only season in which human nature can be corrected, and 
in youth the power of correction is without limits. 

There was in the allied army a Dolopian whose name was 
Eurymachus, an insinuating sycophant, who paid his court to 
all the princes, and could accommodate himself to every one's 
taste and inclination. He kept his invention and diligence con- 
tinually upon the stretch to render himself agreeable. If Eurym- 
achus might be believed, nothing was difficult. If his advice 
was asked, he guessed immediately what answer would be most 
pleasing, and gave it. He Jiad humor, and indulged in raillery 
against those from whom he had nothing to fear ; but to others 
he was respectful and complaisant; and he had the art of render- 
ing flattery so delicate that the most modest received it with- 
out disgust. He was grave with the sober, and with the jovial 
he was gay ; he could assume all characters, however differ- 
ent, with equal facility. Men of sincerity appear always the 
same, and their conduct, being regulated by the unalterable 
laws of virtue, is steady and uniform ; they are, therefore* 
much less agreeable to princes than those who suit themselves 



424 WORKS OF FENELON. 

to their predominant passions. Eurymachus had considerable 
military skill, and was very able in business. He was a soldier 
of fortune, who, having attached himself to Nestor, had entirely 
gained his confidence, and could, by flattering that vanity and 
fondness for praise which a little sullied the lustre of his char- 
acter, draw from him whatever he wanted to know. 

Philoctetes, though he never trusted him, was not less in 
his power ; for in him, irascibility and impatience produced 
the same effect that an ill-placed confidence produced in Nes- 
tor. Eurymachus had nothing to do but to contradict him ; 
for when once he was provoked, all his secrets were discovered. 
This man had been bribed with large sums of money to be- 
tray the councils of the allies to Adrastus, who had, in his 
army, a certain number of chosen men, who went over to the 
allies as deserters, and came back, one by one, with intelligence 
from Eurymachus, as often as he had any thing of importance 
to communicate. This treachery was practised without much 
danger of detection, for these messengers carried no letters, 
and therefore if they happened to be seized, nothing was 
found upon them that could render Eurymachus suspected. 

Every project of the allies, therefore, was constantly de- 
feated by Adrastus. An enterprise was scarcely resolved upon 
in council, before the Daunians made the very dispositions 
which alone could prevent its success. Telemachus was inde- 
fatigable to discover the cause, and endeavored to put Nestor 
and Philoctetes upon their guard, by alarming their suspi- 
cion ; but his care was ineffectual : they were blind. 

It had been resolved in council to wait for a considerable 
reinforcement that was expected, and a hundred vessels were 
dispatched secretly by night to convey these troops from that 
part of the coast, whither they had been ordered to repair, to 
the place where the army was encamped, with greater speed 
and facility; the ground over which they would otherwise 
have been obliged to march, being in some places very difficult 
to pass. In the mean time they thought themselves in per- 
fect security, having taken possession of the passes of the 
neighboring mountain, which was a part of the Appenines 




TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XIII. 425 

most difficult of access. The camp was upon the banks of the 
river Gaiesus, not far from the sea, in a delightful country, 
abounding with pasturage, and with whatever else was neces- 
sary for the subsistence of an army. Adrastus was on the 
other side of the mountain, which it was thought impossible 
for him to pass ; but as he knew that the allies were then 
weak, that a large reinforcement was expected to join them, 
that vessels were waiting to receive them on board, and that 
dissension and animosity had been produced in the army by 
the quarrel between Telemachus and Phalanthus, he undertook 
to march round without delay. He proceeded with the ut- 
most expedition, advancing night and day along the borders of 
the sea, through ways which had always been thought inac- 
cessible. Thus courage and labor 1 surmount all obstacles ; thus, 
to those who can dare and suffer, nothing is impossible ; and 
those who, slumbering in idleness and timidity, dream that 
every thing is impossible that appears to be difficult, deserve 
to be surprised and subdued. 

Adrastus fell unexpectedly upon the hundred vessels of the 
allies at break of day. As these vessels were not prepared for 
defence, and those on board had not the least suspicion of an 
attack, they were seized without resistance, and served to 
transport his troops with the greatest expedition to the mouth 
of the Gaiesus. He then proceeded, without delay, up the 
river. The advanced guard of the allies' on that side, believ- 
ing that these vessels brought the reinforcement they expected, 
received them with shouts of joy. Adrastus and his men got 
on shore before they discovered their mistake. He fell upon 
them when they had no suspicion of danger, and he found the 
camp open, without order, without chief, and without arms. 

The quarter of the camp which he first attacked was that 
of the Tarentines, commanded by Phalanthus. The Daunians 
entered so suddenly and with so much vigor, that the surprise 
of the Lacedemonians rendered them incapable of resistance. 
While they were seeking their arms with a confusion that 

1 " Labor omnia vincit." — Virgil, George., i. 



4:26 WORKS OF FKNELON. 

made them embarrass and impede each other, Adrastus set 
fire to the camp. The flames immediately rose from the tents 
to the sky, and the noise of the fire was like that of a torrent 
which rolls over a whole country, bearing down trees of the 
deepest root, and sweeping away the treasured harvest with 
the barn, and flocks and herds with the fold and the stall. 1 The 
flames were driven by the wind from tent to tent, and the 
whole camp had soon the appearance of an ancient forest, 
which some accidental spark had set on fire. 

Phalanthus, though he was nearest to the danger, could ap- 
ply no remedy. He saw that all his troops must perish in the 
conflagration if they did not immediately abandon the camp ; 
yet he was sensible that a sudden retreat before a victorious 
enemy might produce a final and fatal disorder, lie began, 
however, to draw up his Lacedemonian youth before they 
were half armed. But Adrastus gave him no time to breathe ; 
a band of expert archers killed many of them on one side, 
and a company of slingers threw stones as thick as hail on the 
other. Adrastus himself, sword in hand, at the head of a 
chosen number of Daunians, pursued the fugitives by the light 
of the flames, and put all that escaped the fire to the sword. 
Blood flowed round him in a deluge ; his fury exceeded that 
of lions and tigers, when they tear in pieces the shepherd and 
the flock. The troops of Phalanthus stood torpid in despair. 
Death appeared before them like a spectre led by an infernal 
Fury, and their blood froze in their veins; their limbs would 
no longer obey their will, and their trembling knees deprived 
them even of the hope of flight. 

Phalanthus, whose faculties were in some degree roused by 
shame and despair, lifted up his eyes and hands to heaven ; 
he saw his brother Ilippias fall at his feet under the dreadful 
hand of Adrastus. He was stretched upon the earth and 
rolled in the dust ; the blood gushed from a deep wound in 

' "As when a flume is driven by furious south-winds on standing corn, 
or as a torrent impetuously bursting in a mountain-flood desolates the 
fields, desolates the rich crops of corn and the labors of the ox, and drags 
woods headlong down." — Virgil, u£n. s ii. 304. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 427 

his side like a river ; his eyes closed against the light, and his 
soul, furious and indignant, issued with the torrent of his 
blood. Phalanthus himself, all covered with the blood of his 
brother, and unable to afford him succor, was instantly sur- 
rounded by a crowd of enemies, who pressed him with all 
their power. His shield was pierced by a thousand arrows; 
he was wounded in many parts of the body ; the troops fled 
without a possibility of being brought back to the charge ; the 
gods looked down upon his sufferings without pity. 

Jupiter, surrounded by ail the celestial deities, surveyed the 
slaughter of the allies from the summit of Olympus. At the 
same time he consulted the immutable destinies, and beheld the 
chiefs whose thread of life was that day to be divided by the 
Fates. Every eye in the divine assembly was fixed upon the 
countenance of Jupiter, to discover his will. But the father 
of gods and men thus addressed them, with a voice in which 
majesty was tempered with sweetness : " You see the distress 
of the allies, and the triumph of Adrastus; but the scene is 
deceptive. The prosperity and honor of the wicked are short. 
The victory of Adrastus, the impious and perfidious, shall not 
be complete. The allies are punished by this misfortune, only 
that they may correct their faults, and learn better to conceal 
their counsels. Minerva is preparing new laurels for Telem- 
achus, whom she delights to honor." J upiter ceased to speak, 
and the gods continued, in silence, to behold the battle. 

In the mean time, Nestor and Philoctetes were informed 
that one part of the camp was already burned ; that the wind 
was spreading the flames to the rest ; that the troops were in 
disorder, and that Phalanthus, with his Lacedemonians, had 
given way. At this dreadful intelligence they ran to arms, 
assembled the leaders, and gave orders for the camp to be 
immediately abandoned, that the men might not perish in the 
conflagration. 

Telemachus, who had been pining with inconsolable dejec- 
tion, forgot his anguish in a moment, and resumed his arms. 
His arms were the gift of Minerva, who, under the figure of 
Mentor, pretended to have received them from an excellent 



4:28 WORKS OF FENELON. 

artificer of Salentum; but they were, indeed, the work of 
Yulcan, who, at her request, had forged them in the smoking 
caverns of Mount ./Etna. 

These arms ' had a polish like glass, and were effulgent as 
the rays of the sun. On the cuirass was the representation of 
Neptune and Pallas, disputing which of them should give name 
to a rising city. Neptune struck the earth with his trident, 
and a horse sprung out at the blow : his eyes had the appear- 
ance of living fire, and the foam of his mouth sparkled like 
light ; his mane floated in the wind ; his limbs, at once nervous 
and supple, played under him with equal agility and vigor ; his 
motion could not be reduced to any pace, but he seemed to 
bound along with a swiftness and elasticity that left no trace 
of his foot, and the spectator could scarcely believe but that he 
heard him neigh. 

In another compartment, Minerva appeared to be giving the 
branch of an olive, a tree of her own planting, to the inhab- 
itants of her new city : the branch, with its fruit, represented 
that plenty and peace which wisdom cannot fail to prefer be- 
fore the disorders of war, of which the horse was an emblem. 
This simple and useful gift decided the contest in favor of the 
goddess, and Athens, the pride of Greece, was distinguished by 
her name. 2 

Minerva was also represented as assembling around her the 
Liberal Arts, under the symbols of little children with wings : 
they appeared to fly to her for protection, terrified at the 
brutal fury of Mars, who marks his way with desolation, as 
lambs gather round their dam at the sight of a hungry wolf, 
who has already opened his mouth to devour them. The god- 
dess, with a look of disdain and anger, confounded, by the 
excellence of her works, the presumptuous folly of Araclme, 
who vied with her in the labors of the loom. Arachne her- 
self was also to be seen in the piece, her limbs attenuated 



1 Many are the passages in the ancient poets imitated by Fenelon in hig 
fine description of Telemachus' armor. — Ed. 
8 The Greek name of Minerva is 'A0/}nj (Athene), 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XIH. 429 

and disfigured, and her whole form changed into that of a 
spider. 

At a little distance, Minerva was again represented as giving 
counsel to Jupiter when the Giants made war upon heaven, 
and encouraging the inferior deities in their terror and con- 
sternation. She was also represented with her spear and aegis, 
upon the borders of Simois and Scamander, leading Ulysses 
by the hand, animating the flying Greeks with new courage, 
and sustaining them against the heroes of Troy and the prow- 
ess even of Hector himself. She was last represented as intro- 
ducing Ulysses into the fatal machine, by which, in one night, 
the whole empire of Priam was subverted. 

Another part of the shield represented Ceres in the fruitful 
plains of Enna, the centre of Sicily. The goddess appeared to 
be collecting together a scattered multitude, who were seeking 
subsistence by the chase, or gathering up the wild fruit that 
fell from the trees. To these ignorant barbarians she seemed 
to teach the art of meliorating the earth, and deriving suste- 
nance from its fertility. She presented them a plough, and 
showed them how oxen were to be yoked. The earth was 
then seen to part in furrows under the share, and a golden 
harvest waved upon the plain : the reaper put in his sickle, and 
was rewarded for all his labor. Iron, which in other places 
was devoted to works of destruction, was here employed only 
to produce plenty and provide for delight. 

The nymphs of the meadows, crowned with flowers, were 
dancing on the borders of a river near a grove ; Pan gave the 
music of his pipe, and the fauns and satyrs were seen frolicking 
together on the border. Bacchus was also represented, crowned 
with ivy, leaning with one hand on his thyrsis, and holding 
the branch of a vine, laden with grapes, in the other. The 
beauty of the god was effeminate, but mingled with something 
noble, impassioned, and languishing, that cannot be expressed. 
He appeared upon the shield as he did to the unfortunate 
Ariadne, when he found her alone, forsaken, and overwhelmed 
with grief, a stranger upon an unknown shore. 

Finally, numbers of people were seen on all sides — old men 



430 WORKS OF FENELON. 

carrying the first fruits of their labor as an offering to the gods — 
young men returning, weary with the labor of the day, to their 
wives, who had gone out to meet them, leading their children 
by the hand and interrupting their walk with caresses. There 
were also shepherds, some of whom appeared to be singing, 
while others danced to the music of the reed. The whole was 
a representation of peace, plenty, and delight ; every thing was 
smiling and happy. Wolves even were seen sporting with the 
sheep in the pastures ; the lion and tiger, having lost their 
ferocity, grazed peaceably with the lamb, — a shepherd that was 
still a child led them, obedient to his crook, in one flock : and 
this peaceful picture recalled all the charms of the golden age. 

Telemachus, having put on this divine armor, took, instead 
of his own shield, the dreadful aegis of Minerva, which had 
been sent him by Iris, the speedy messenger of the gods. Iris 
had, unperceived, taken away his shield, and had left, in its 
stead, this aegis, at the sight of which the gods themselves are 
impressed with dread. 

When he was thus armed, he ran out of the camp to avoid 
the flames, and called to him all the chiefs of the army ; he 
called with a voice that restored the courage they had lost, 
and his eyes sparkled with a brightness that was more than 
human. His aspect was placid, and his manner easy and com- 
posed ; he gave orders with the same quiet attention as that of 
an old man, who regulates his family and instructs his children ; 
but in action he was sudden and impetuous ; he resembled a 
torrent, which not only rolls on its own waves with irresistible 
rapidity, but carries with it the heaviest vessel that floats upon 
its surface. 

Philoctetes and Nestor, the chiefs of the Mandurians, and 
the leaders of other nations, felt themselves influenced by an 
irresistible authority : age appeared to be no longer conscious 
of experience ; every commander seemed to give up implicitly 
all pretensions to counsel and wisdom ; even jealousy, a pas- 1 
sion so natural to man, was suspended ; every tongue was 
silent, and every eye was fixed with admiration upon Telem- ;, « 
achus ; all stood ready to obey him without reflection, as if ; . 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 431 

they bad always been under bis command. He advanced to 
an eminence, from which the disposition of tbe enemy might 
be discovered : at the first glance he saw that not a moment 
was to be lost, that the burning of the camp had thrown the 
Daunians into disorder, and that they might now be surprised 
in their turn. He therefore took a circuit with the utmost 
expedition, followed by the most experienced commanders. 

He fell upon the Daunians in the rear, when they believed 
the whole army of the allies to be surrounded by the conflagra- 
tion. This unexpected attack threw them into confusion ; and 
they fell under the hand of Telemachus, as leaves 1 fall from 
the trees in the declining year, when the northern tempest, 
the harbinger of winter, makes the veterans of the forest groan, 
and bends the branches to the trunk. Telemachus strewed 
the earth with the victims of his prowess. His spear pierced 
the heart of Iphicles, the youngest son of Adrastus : Iphicles 
rashly presented himself before him in battle, to preserve the 
life of his father, whom Telemachus was about to attack by 
surprise. Telemachus and Iphicles were equal in beauty, 
vigor, dexterity, and courage ; they were of the same stature, 
had the same sweetness of disposition, and were both tenderly 

' beloved by their parents ; but Iphicles fell like a flower of the 
field, which, in the full pride of its beauty, is cut down by the 

' scythe of the mower. Telemachus then overthrew Euphorion, 

1 the most celebrated of all the Lydians that came from Etruria. 

'! His sword at last pierced the breast of Cleomenes, who had 
just plighted his faith in marriage, and had promised rich 

1 spoils to the wife whom he was destined to see no more. 

Adrastus beheld the fall of his son and of his captains, and 
saw his victory wrested from him, when he thought it secure, 
in a transport of rage. Phalanthus, almost prostrate at his 
feet, was like a victim, wounded but not slain, that starts 
from the sacred knife, and flies terrified from the altar. 2 In 



1 " As numerous as withered leaves fall in the woods with the first cold 
of autumn."— Virgil, J£n., vi. 309. 

2 " As when a bull has fled wounded from the altar, and has eluded with 
his neck the missing axe." — Virgil, ^£n., ii. 223. 



432 WORKS OF FENELOK 

one moment more, his life would Lave been the prize of 
Adrastus. 

But in this crisis of his fate, he heard the shout of Telem- 
achus, rushing to his assistance, and looked upward. His life 
was now given him back, and the cloud which was settling 
over his eyes vanished. The Daunians, alarmed at this unex- 
pected attack, abandoned Phalanthus, to repress a more formi- 
dable enemy. Adrastus was stung with new rage, like a tiger, 
from which the shepherds, with united force, snatch the prey 
that he was ready to devour. Telemachus sought him in the 
throng, desiring to finish the war at a stroke, by delivering the 
allies from their implacable enemy. 

But Jupiter would not vouchsafe the son of Ulysses so sud 
den and easy a victory ; even Minerva, that he might better 
learn to govern, was willing that he should continue longer to 
suffer. The impious Adrastus, therefore, was preserved by the 
father of the gods, that Telemachus might acquire new virtue, 
and i>e distinguished by greater glory. A thick cloud was 
interposed by Jupiter, between the Daunians and their ene- 
mies ; the will of the gods was declared in thunders that shook 
the plain, and threatened to crush the weak inhabitants of the 
earth under the ruins of Olympus; the lightning divided the 
firmament from pole to pole ; and the light which, this mo- 
ment, dazzled the eye, left it the next in total darkness. An 
impetuous shower that immediately followed, contributed to 
separate the two armies. 

Adrastus availed himself of the succor of the gods, without 
any secret acknowledgment of their power, — an instance of 
ingratitude, which made him worthy of more signal vengeance. 
He possessed himself of a situation, between the ruins of the 
camp and a morass which extended to the river, with such 
promptness and expedition as made even his retreat an honor, 
and at once showed his readiness at expedients, and his perfect 
possession of himself. The allies, animated by Telemachus, 
would have pursued him; but he escaped, by favor of the 
storm, like a bird from the snare of the fowler. 

The allies had now nothing to do but to return to the camp, 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 433 

and repair the damage it had suffered. But the scene, as they 
entered it, exhibited the miseries of war in their utmost horror. 
The sick and wounded, not having strength to quit their tents, 
had become a prey to the flames; and many that appeared to 
be half burnt, were still able to express their misery in a plain- 
tive and dying voice, calling upon the gods, and looking up- 
ward. At these sights and these sounds, Telemachus was 
pierced to the heart, and burst into tears ; he was seized with 
horror and compassion, and involuntarily turned away his eyes 
from objects which he trembled to behold, — from wretches 
whose death was inevitable, but painful and slow, — from those 
bodies, in part devoured by the fire, which had the appearance 
of the flesh of victims that is burnt upon the altar, and mixes 
the savor of sacrifices with the air. 

"Alas!" exclaimed Telemachus, "how various and how 
dreadful are the miseries of war! What horrid infatuation 
impels mankind ! Their days upon the earth are few, and those 
few are evil ; why then should they precipitate death which is 
already near ? why should they add bitterness to life that is 
already bitter? All men are brothers, and yet they hunt each 
other as prey. The wild beasts of the desert are less cruel. 
Lions wage not war against lions, and to the tiger, the tiger 
is peaceable ; the only objects of their ferocity are animals of 
a different species ; man does, in opposition to his reason, what 
by animals that are without reason is never done. And for 
what are these wars undertaken ? Is there not land enough 
in the world for every man to appropriate more than he can 
cultivate ? Are there not deserts which the whole race could 
never people? What then is the motive to war? Some 
tyrant sighs for a new appellation — he would be called a con- 
queror ; and for this he kindles a flame that desolates the 
earth. Thus a wretched individual who would not have been 
born but for the anger of the gods, brutally sacrifices his spe- 
cies to his vanity : ruin must spread, blood must flow, fire 
must consume, and he who escapes from the flames and the 
sword, must perish by famine with yet more anguish and 
horror, that one man, to whom the misery of a world is sport 
19 



4:34 WORKS OF FENELON. 

may, from this general destruction, obtain a fanciful possession 
of what he calls glory ! How vile the perversion of so sacred 
a name ! how worthy, above all others, of indignation and con- 
tempt, those who have so far forgotten humanity ! Let those 
who fancy they are demi-gods, henceforth remember that they 
are less than men, and let every succeeding age by which 
they have hoped to be admired hold them in execration. 
With what caution should princes undertake a war ! Wars, 
indeed, ought always to be just ; but that is not sufficient ; 
they ought also to be necessary to the general good. The 
blood of a nation ought never to be shed except for its own 
preservation in the utmost extremity. But the perfidious 
counsels of flattery, false notions of glory, groundless jealous- 
ies, insatiable ambition, disguised under specious appearances, 
and connections insensibly formed, seldom fail to engage prin- 
ces in wars which render them unhappy, in which every thing 
is put in hazard without necessity, and which produce as much 
mischief to their subjects as to their enemies." Such were the 
reflections of Telemachus. 

But he did not content himself with deploring the evils of 
war ; he endeavored to mitigate them. He went himself from 
tent to tent, affording to the sick and dying such assistance 
and comfort as they could receive ; he distributed among them 
not only medicine, but money ; he soothed and consoled them 
by expressions of tenderness and friendship, and sent others 
on the same errand to those whom he could not visit himself. 

Among the Cretans that had accompanied him from Salen- 
tum, were two old men, whose names were Traumaphilus and 
Nosophugus. 

Traumaphilus had been at the siege of Troy with Idomeneus, 
and had learned the art of healing wounds from the sons of 
^Esculapius. He poured into the deepest and most malignant 
sores an odoriferous liquor, which removed the dead and mor- 
tified flesh without the assistance of the knife, and facilitated 
the formation of new flesh of fairer and healthier texture 
than the first. 

Nosophugus had never seen the sons of ^Esculapius, but, by 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 435 

the assistance of Merion, had procured a sacred and mysteri- 
ous book, which was written by ^Esculapius for their instruc- 
tion. Nosophngus was also beloved by the gods ; he had 
composed hymns in honor of the offspring of Latona ; and he 
offered every day a lamb, white and spotless, to Apollo, by 
whom he was frequently inspired. As soon as he saw the 
sick, he knew by the appearance of the eyes, the color of the 
skin, the temperature of the body, and the state of respira- 
tion, what was the cause of the disease. Sometimes he ad- 
ministered medicines that operated by perspiration ; and the 
success showed how much the increase or diminution of that 
secretion can influence the mechanism of the body for its hurt 
or advantage. To those that were languishing under a gradual 
decay, he gave infusions of certain salutary herbs, that by de- 
grees fortified the noble parts, and, by purifying the blood, 
brought back the vigor and the freshness of youth. But he 
frequently declared that if it were not for criminal excesses 
and idle fears, there would be but little employment for the 
physician. " The number of diseases," said he, " is a disgrace 
to mankind ; for virtue produces health. Intemperance con- 
verts the very food that should sustain life into a poison that 
destroys it; and pleasure, indulged to excess, shortens our days 
more than they can be lengthened by medicine. The poor 
are more rarely sick for want of nourishment than the rich by 
taking too much. High-seasoned meats, that stimulate ap- 
petite after nature is sufficed, are rather poison than food. 
Medicines themselves offer violence to nature, and should never 
be used but in the most pressing necessity. The great remedy 
which is always innocent and always useful, is temperance, a 
moderate use of pleasure, tranquillity of mind, and exercise of 
the body. These produce a pure and well-tempered blood, 
and throw off superfluous humors that would corrupt it." 
Thus was Nosophugus yet less honored for the medicine by 
which he cured diseases, than for the rules he prescribed to 
prevent them and render medidine unnecessary. 

These excellent persons were sent by Telemachus to visit the 
sick of the army. Many they restored by their remedies, but 



436 WORKS OF FENELON. 

yet more by the care which they took to have them properly at- 
tended, to have their persons kept clean, and the air about them 
pure ; at the same time confining the convalescent to an exact 
regimen, as well with respect to the quality as the quantity of 
their food. The soldiers, touched with gratitude at this 
seasonable and important relief, gave thanks to the gods for 
having sent Telemachus among them. 

" He is not," said they, " a mere mortal like ourselves ; he 
is certainly some beneficent deity in a human shape; or if he 
is indeed a mortal, he bears less resemblance to the rest of men 
than to the gods. He is an inhabitant of the earth only to 
diffuse good ; his affability and benevolence recommend him 
still more than his valor. Oh that we might have him for our 
king ! but the gods reserve him for some more favored and 
happy people among whom they design to restore the golden 
age!" 

These encomiums were overheard by Telemachus, while he 
was going about the camp in the night to guard against the 
stratagems of Adrastus, and therefore could not be suspected 
of flattery, like those which designing sycophants often bestow 
upon princes to their face, insolently presuming that they 
have neither modesty nor delicacy, and that nothing more is 
necessary to secure their favor than to load them with ex- 
travagant praise. To Telemachus, that only was pleasing 
which was true ; he could bear no praise but that, which, being 
given when he was absent, he might reasonably conclude to 
be just. To such praise he was not insensible, but tasted the 
pure and serene delight which the gods have decreed to virtue 
alone, and which vice can neither enjoy nor conceive. He did 
not, however, give himself up to this pleasure : his faults im- 
mediately rushed into his mind ; he remembered his excessive 
regard for himself and indifference to others ; he felt a secret 
shame at having received from nature a disposition which 
made him appear to want the feelings of humanity. He re- 
ferred to Minerva all the praise that he had received, as having 
grafted excellence upon him, which he thought he had no right 
to appropriate to himself. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 437 

" It is thy bounty," said he, " goddess, which has given 
me Mentor to fill my mind with knowledge, and correct the 
infirmities of my nature. Thou hast vouchsafed me wisdom 
to profit by my faults and mistrust myself. It is thy power 
that restrains the impetuosity of my passions ; and the pleasure 
that I feel in comforting the afflicted is thy gift. Men would 
hate me but for thee, and without thee I should deserve hatred ; 
but for thee I should be guilty of irreparable faults, — I should 
resemble an infant, who, not conscious of its own weakness, 
quits the side of its mother and falls at the next step." 

Nestor and Philoctetes were astonished to see Telemachus 
so affable, so attentive to oblige, so ready to supply the wants 
of others, and so diligent to prevent them. They were struck 
with the difference of his behavior, but could not conceive the 
cause. What surprised them most was the care that he took 
about the funeral of Hippias. He went himself and drew the 
body, bloody and disfigured, from the spot where it lay hidden 
under a heap of the slain ; he was touched with a pious sor- 
row, and wept over it. " O mighty shade," said he, "thou art 
now ignorant of my reverence for thy valor ! Thy haughti- 
ness, indeed, provoked me; .but thy fault was from the ardor 
of youth. Alas ! I know but too well, how much youth has 
need of pardon. We were in the way to be united by friend- 
ship ; I was in the wrong myself. Oh, why have the gods 
snatched thee from me before I had an opportunity to com- 
pel thy esteem !" ' 

Telemachus caused the body to be washed with odoriferous 
liquors, and by his orders a funeral pile was prepared. The 
lofty pines groaned under the strokes of the axe, and, as they 
fell, rolled down the declivity of the mountain. Oaks, those 
ancient children of the earth, which seemed to threaten heaven, 
and elms and poplars adorned with thick foliage of vivid green, 
with the spreading beech, the glory of the forest, fell 2 upon the 



1 Such, says an early editor, was the sentiment of Julias Sealiger to- 
wards Erasmus. 

" Down drop the firs : the ilex crashes, felled by the axes ; and the 



438 WORKS OF FENELON. 

borders of the river Galesus ; and a pile was there raised with 
such order that it resembled a regular building: the flame 
began to sparkle among the wood, and a cloud of smoke 
ascended in volumes to the sky. 

The Lacedemonians advanced with a slow and mournful 
pace, holding their lances reversed, and fixing their eyes upon 
the ground ; the ferocity of their countenances was softened 
into grief, and tears flowed from their eyes. These Lacedemo- 
nians were followed by Pherecydes, an old man, yet less de- 
pressed by the weight of years than by sorrow to have survived 
Hippias, whom he had educated from his earliest youth. He I 
raised his hands, and his eyes that were drowned in tears, to 
heaven. Since the death of Hippias he had refused to eat, 
and the gentle hand of sleep had not once closed his eyes, nor 
suspended the anguish of his mind. He walked on with 
trembling steps, implicitly following the crowd, and scarcely 
knowing whither he went. His heart was too full for speech ; 
his silence was that of dejection and despair. But when he 
saw the pile kindled, a sudden transport seized him, and he 
cried out : " Hippias, Hippias ! I shall see thee no more ! 
Hippias is dead, and I am still living ! my dear Hippias ! 
it was I that taught thee, cruel and unrelenting — it was I 
that taught thee the contempt of death. I hoped that my 
dying eyes would have been closed by thy hand, and that I 
should have breathed the last sigh into thy bosom. Ye have 
prolonged my life, ye gods, in your displeasure, that I might 
see the life of Hippias at an end ! O my child, thou dear 
object of my care and hope, I shall see thee no more ! But I 
shall see thy mother, who, dying of grief, will reproach me 
with thy death ; and I shall see thy wife, fading in the bloom 
of youth, and agonized with despair and sorrow, of which I am 
the cause ! Oh call me from these scenes to the borders of the 
Styx, which have received thy shade ! The light is hateful to 
my eyes, and there is none but thee whom I desire to behold ! 

ashen logs and yielding oak are cleft by wedges ; down from the mountains 
they roll the huge wild-ashes." — Virgil, ^Eneid, vi. 180. 



TELEMACHUS.— BOOK XIII. 439 

I live, O my dear Hippias, only to pay the last duty to thy 
ashes !" 

The body of the hero appeared stretched upon a bier that 
was decorated with purple and gold. His eyes were extin- 
guished in death, but his beauty was not totally effaced, nor 
had the graces faded wholly from his countenance, however 
pale. Around his neck, that was whiter than snow, but 
reclined upon the shoulder, floated his long black hair, still 
more beautiful than that of Atys or Ganymede, but in a few 
moments to be reduced to ashes; and on his side appeared 
the wound through which, issuing with the torrent of his 
blood, his spirit had been dismissed to the gloomy regions of 
the dead. 

Telemachus followed the body, sorrowful and dejected, and 
scattered liowers upon it. When it was laid upon the pile, he 
could not zee the names catch the clothes that were wrapped 
abcut it without again bursting into tears. " Farewell," said 
he, " O magnanimous youth, for I must not presume to call 
thee friend. Let thy shade be appeased, since thy glory is 
full, and my envy is precluded only by my love. Thou art 
delivered from the miseries that we continue to suffer, and hast 
entered a better region by the most glorious path. How 
happy should I be to follow thee by the same way ! May the 
Styx yield a passage to thy shade, and the fields of Elysium 
lie open before thee ! may thy name be preserved with honor 
to the latest generation, and thy ashes rest forever in peace !" 
As soon as Telemachus, who had uttered these words in a 
broken and interrupted voice, was silent, the whole army sent 
up a general cry : the fate of Hippias, whose exploits they re- 
counted, melted them into tenderness, and grief at once revived 
his good qualities, and buried in oblivion all the failings which 
the impetuosity of youth and a bad education had concurred 
to produce. They were, however„yet more touched by the 
tender sentiments of Telemachus. " Is this," said they, " the 
young Greek that was so proud, so contemptuous, and intract- 
able ? He is now affable, humane, and tender. Minerva, who 
has distinguished his father by her favor, is also certainly pro- 



440 WORKS OF FENELON. 

pitious to him. She has undoubtedly bestowed upon him the 
most valuable gift which the gods themselves can bestow upon 
man— -a heart that is at once replete with wisdom and sensible 
to friendship." 

The body was now consumed by the flames. Telemachus 
himself sprinkled the still smoking ashes with water, which 
gums and spices had perfumed ; l * he then deposited them in a 
golden urn, which he crowned with flowers, and he carried the 
urn to Phalanthus. Phalanthus was stretctied out upon a 
couch, his body being pierced with many wounds, and life was 
so far exhausted that he saw, not far distant, the irremediable 
gates of death. 

Traumaphilus and Nosophugus, whom Telemachus sent to 
his assistance, had exerted all their art; they had brought 
back his fleeting spirit by degrees, and he was insensibly ani- 
mated with new strength ; a gentle but penetrating power, a 
new principle of life gliding from vein to vein, reached even to 
the heart ; and a genial warmth relaxing the frozen hand of 
Death, the tyrant remitted his grasp. But the insensibility of 
a dying languor was immediately succeeded by an agony of 
grief, and he felt the loss of his brother, which before he was 
not in a condition to feel. " Alas !" said he, " why all this 
assiduity to preserve my life ? It would be better that I should 
follow Hippias to the grave — my dear Ilippias ! — whom I saw 
perish at my side. my brother, thou art lost forever, and 
with thee all the comforts of life ! I shall see thee, I shall heat 
thee, I shall embrace thee no more ! I shall no more unburden 
my breast of its troubles to thee, and my friendship shall par- 
ticipate of thy sorrows no more ! And is Hippias thus lost for- 
ever ? O ye gods, that delight in the calamities of men, can it 
be ? — or is it not a dream, from which I shall awake ? Ah, no ! 
it is a dreadful reality ! I have indeed lost thee, O Hippias ! 
I saw thee expire in the, dust, and I must at least live till 
I have avenged thee — till I have offered up, to thy manes, 



1 " After the ashes had sunk down and the flumes relented, they drenched 
the relics and soaking embers in wine." — Virgil, jEn., vi. 226. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIII. 441 

the merciless Adrastus, whose hands are stained with thy 
blood." 

While Phalanthus was uttering these passionate exclama- 
tions, and the divine dispensers of health were endeavoring to 
soothe him into peace, lest the perturbation of his mind should 
increase his malady and render their medicines ineffectual, he 
suddenly .beheld Teiemachus, who had approached him unper- 
ceived. At the first sight of him, he felt the conflict of two 
opposite passions in his bosom : his mind still glowed with re- 
sentment at the remembrance of what passed between Teiem- 
achus and Hippias, and the grief that he felt for the loss of his 
brother gave this resentment new force ; but he was also con- 
scious that he was himself indebted for his life to Teiemachus, 
who had rescued him, bleeding and exhausted, from the hands 
of Adrastus. During this struggle, he remarked the golden 
urn that contained the dear remains of his brother, and the 
sight instantly melted him into tears. He embraced Teiema- 
chus at first without power to speak, but at length he said, in 
a feeble and interrupted voice : 

" Thy virtue, son of Ulysses, has compelled my love. I 
am indebted to thee for my life ; I am indebted to thee, also, 
for something yet more precious than life itself. The body of 
my brother would have been a prey to the vulture but for 
thee, and but for thee the rites of sepulture had been denied 
him. His shade would have wandered, forlorn and wretched, 
upon the borders of the Styx, forever repulsed by Charon with 
inexorable severity. 1 Must I lie under such obligations to a 
man whom I have so bitterly hated ? May the gods reward 
thee, and dismiss me from life and misery together ! Render 
to me, Teiemachus, the last duties that you have rendered 
to my brother, and your glory shall be complete." 

Phalanthus then fell back, fainting and overwhelmed with 
grief. Teiemachus continued near him, but, not daring to 
speak, waited in silence till his strength should return. He 

1 The shade of whomsoever had not received the rites of sepulture Cha- 
ron could not ferry over to the Elysian Fields. 

19-» 



442 WORKS OF FENELON. 

revived after a short time, and, taking the urn out of the hands 
of Telemachus, he kissed it many times and wept over it. " 
precious dust," said he, " when shall mine be mingled with you 
in the same urn ? O my brother, 1 will follow thee to the 
regions of the dead ! There is no need that I should avenge 
thee, for Telemachus will avenge us both." 

By the skill of the two sages, who practised the science of 
JEsculapius, Hialanthus gradually recovered. Telemachus was 
continually with them at the couch of the sick, that they might 
exert themselves with more diligence to hasten the cure; and 
the whole army was more struck with admiration at the ten- 
derness with which he succored his most inveterate enemy, 
than at the wisdom and valor with which he had preserved 
the army of the allies. 

He was, however, at the same time indefatigable in the ruder 
labors of war. lie slept but little, and his sleep was often in- 
terrupted, sometimes by the intelligence which was brought 
him at every hour of the night, as well as of the day, and 
sometimes by examining every quarter of the camp, which he 
never visited twice together at the same time, that he might 
be more sure to surprise those that were negligent of their 
duty. Be often returned to his tent covered with sweat and 
dust. Though his sleep was short and his labor great, yet 
his diet was plain. He fared in every respect like the common 
soldiers, that he might give them an example of patience and 
sobriety. Provisions becoming scarce in the camp, he thought 
it necessary to prevent murmurings and discontent by suffer- 
ing voluntarily the same inconveniences which they suffered 
by necessity. But this labor and temperance, however severe, 
were so far from impairing his vigor, that he became every 
day more hardy and robust. He began to lose the softer graces 
which may be considered as the flower of youth ; his com- 
plexion became browner and less delicate, and his limbs more 
muscular and Arm. 



BOOK XIV. 



Felemachus being persuaded, by several dreams, that his father Ulysses 
was do longe: alive, executes his design of seeking him among the dead. 
He retires fiom the camp, and is followed by two Cretans as far as a 
temple near the celebrated cav m of Acherontia. He enters it, and 
descends through the gloom to the borders of the Styx, where Charon 
takes him into his boat. He presents himself before Pluto, who, in 

fc obedience to superior powers, permits him to seek his father. He passes 
through Tartarus, and is witness to the torments that are inflicted upon 
ingratitude, perjury, impiety, hypocrisy, and above all upon bad kings. 
He then enters the Elysian Fields, where he is known by his great 
grandfather, Arcesius, who assures him that Ulysses is still alive, that 
he shall see him in Ithaca, and succeed to his throne. Arcesius de- 
scribes the felicity of the just, especially of good kings, who have rever- 
enced the gods and given happiness to their people. He makes Telem- 
achus observe that heroes, those who have excelled only in the arts of 
destruction, have a much less glorious reward, and are allotted a separate 
district by themselves. Telemachus receives some general instructions, 
and then returns back to the camp. 

Adrasttjs, whose troops had been considerably diminished 
by the battle, retired behind Mount Aulon, where he expected 
a reinforcement, and watched for another opportunity of sur- 
prising the allies ; as a hungry lion 1 that has been repulsed 
from the fold, retires into the gloomy forest, enters again into 
his den, and waits for some favorable moment when he may 
destroy the whole flock. 

Telemachus, having established an exact discipline among the 
troops, turned his mind entirely to the execution of a design 
which he had conceived, but had wholly concealed from the 
commanders of the army. He had been long disturbed in the 

1 "Asa shaggy- bearded lion, which dogs and men drive from the stall 
with spears and clamor; but his valiant he;irt within his breast i3 shaken, 
and he unwilling derurts from the fold."— Homer, Iliad, xvii. 109. 



4:4:4: WORKS OF FENELON. 

night by dreams, in which he saw his father Ulysses.' The 
vision never failed to return at the end of the night, just before 
the approach of Aurora, with her prevailing fires, to chase from 
heaven the doubtful radiance of the stars, and from earth the 
pleasing delusions of sleep. Sometimes he thought he saw 
Ulysses naked upon the banks of a river, in a flowery meadow 
of some blissful island, surrounded by nymphs, who threw 
clothes to cover him within his reach ; sometimes he thought 
he heard him speaking in a palace resplendent with ivory and 
gold, where a numerous audience, crowned with flowers, lis- 
tened to his eloquence with delight and admiration. Ulysses 
often appeared to him suddenly among guests at a magnifi- 
cent banquet, where joy shone amid pleasures, and the soft 
melody of a voice, accompanied by the lyre, gave sweeter 
music than the lyre of Apollo, and the voices of all the 
Muses. 2 

From these pleasing dreams Telemachus always awoke de- 
jected and sorrowful. While one of them was recent upon his 
mind, he cried out : " my father ! my dear father 
Ulysses ! the most frightful dreams would be more welcome to 
me than these. These representations of felicity convince me 
that thou art already descended to the abodes of those happy 
spirits whom the gods reward for their virtue with everlasting 
rest. I think I behold the fields of Elysium ! How dreadful 
is the loss of hope ! Must I then, O my father, see thee no 
more forever ? Must I no more embrace him to whom I was 
so dear, and whom I seek with such tender solicitude and per- 
severing labor ? Shall I no more drink wisdom from his lips ? 
Shall I kiss those hands, those dear, those victorious hands, 
which have subdued so many enemies, no more ? Shall they 
never punish the presumptuous suitors of Penelope ? and shall 
the glory of Ithaca be never restored ? You, ye gods, who are 

i " Whenever night o'erspreads the earth with humid shades, as often 
as the fiery stars arise, the trouhled ghost of my father Anchises visits me 
in my dreams."— Virgil, JEneid, iv. 351. 

9 Telemachus sees in his dreams what happened to his father. — Odyssey \ 
vi. vii. viii. , 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XIV. 445 

unpropitious to Ulysses, have sent these dreams to expel the 
last hope from my breast, and leave me to despair and death ! 
I can no longer endure this dreadful suspense. Alas ! what 
have I said ? Of the death of my father I am but too certain. 
I will then seek his shade in the world below. To those awful 
regions Theseus descended in safety ; yet Theseus, with the 
most horrid impiety, sought only to violate the deities of the 
place : my motive, the love of my father, is consistent with my 
duty to the gods. Hercules also descended and returned ; I 
pretend not, indeed, to his prowess, but without it I dare to 
imitate his example. Orpheus, by the recital of his misfor- 
tunes, softened into pity that deity who was thought to be in- 
exorable, and obtained permission for the return of Eurydice to 
the world of life. I am more worthy of compassion than 
Orpheus ; the loss that I have sustained is greater than his. 
What is a youthful beauty, to whom a thousand youthful beau- 
ties are equal, in comparison with the wise Ulysses, the admi- 
ration of all Greece ? The attempt shall be made ; and if I 
perish, I perish. Why should death be dreadful, when life is 
wretched ? I come then, Pluto ! O Proserpine ! to prove 
whether ye are indeed without pity. my father! having 
traversed the earth and the seas in vain to find thee, I will 
now seek thee among the gloomy dwellings of the dead. If 
the gods will not permit me to possess thee upon the earth, 
and enjoy with thee the light of heaven, they may per- 
haps vouchsafe me the sight of thy shade in the realms 
below." 

He immediately rose from the bed which he had bedewed 
with his tears, and hoped that the cheerful light of the morn- 
ing would dissipate the melancholy that he suffered from the 
dreams cf the night, iHe found, however, that the shaft which 
had pierced him was still in the wound, and that he carried it 
with him whithersoever he went. 

He determined, therefore, to descend into hell by a cele- 
brated avenue not far from the camp. This avenue was near 
a place called Acherontia, from a dreadful cavern that led 
down to the banks of Acheron, an infernal river, by which the 



4:4:6 WORKS OF FENELON. 

gods themselves swear with reverence and dread. 1 The town 
was built upon the summit of a rock, like a nest upon the top 
of a tree. At the foot of the rock was the cavern, which no 
man ventured to approach. The shepherds were always care- 
ful to turn their flocks another way ; and the sulphureous 
vapor that exhaled by this aperture from the Stygian fens 
made the air pestilential. The neighboring soil produced 
neither herb nor flower, and in this place the gentle zephyrs, 
the rising beauties of the spring, and the rich gifts of autumn 
were alike unknown. 9 The ground was thirsty and sterile, and 
presented nothing to the eye but a few naked shrubs, and the 
cypress clothed with a funereal green. In the fields that sur- 
rounded it, even at a distance, Ceres denied her golden har- 
vests to the plough ; Bacchus never gave the delicious fruit 
which he seemed to promise, for the grapes withered instead 
of ripening upon the vine. The Naiads mourned, and the 
waters of their urn flowed not with a gentle and translucent 
wave, but were bitter to the taste and impenetrable to the eye. 
Thorns and brambles here covered the ground ; and, as there 
was no grove for shelter, there were no birds to sing — their 
strains of love were warbled beneath a milder sky — and here 
nothing was to be heard but the hoarse croaking of the raven, 
and the boding screams of the owl. The very herbage of the 
field was bitter ; and the flocks of these joyless pastures felt 
not the pleasing impulse that makes them bound upon the 
green. The bull turned from the heifer, and the dejected 
shepherd forgot the music of his pipe. 

A thick black smoke frequently issued from the cavern in a 
cloud that covered the earth with untimely darkness in the 
midst of day. At such seasons the neighboring people 
doubled their sacrifices, to propitiate the infernal gods, yet 
the infernal gods were frequently inexorable, and would 
accept no sacrifice but youth in its sweetest bloom, and 



1 It was the Styx that the gods swore by with dread. — Ed. 

2 Petronius, in his Civil War, has a similar description of Solfaterra, 
near Naples. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 447 

manhood in its ripest vigor, which they cut off by a fatal con- 
tagion. 

In this place Telemachus resolved to seek the way that led 
down to the dark dominions of Pluto. Minerva, who watched 
over him with incessant care, and covered him with her segis, 
had rendered Pluto propitious, and at her request Jupiter him- 
self had commissioned Mercury, who descends daily to the in- 
fernal regions \o deliver a certain number of the dead to 
Charon, to tell the sovereign of the shades it was his pleasure 
that Telemachus should be permitted to enter his dominions. 

Telemachus withdrew secretly from the camp in the night, 
and, going on by the light of the moon, he invoked that power- 
ful divinity, who in heaven is the radiant planet of the night, 
upon earth the chaste Diana, and the tremendous Hecate in 
hell. The goddess heard his prayer, and accepted it, for she 
knew that his heart was upright and his intention pious. 

As he drew near to the cavern he heard the subterraneous 
empire roar. The earth trembled under his feet, and the 
heavens seemed to rain down fire upon his head. A secret 
horror thrilled to his heart, and his limbs were covered with a 
cold sweat ; yet his fortitude sustained him, and lifting up his 
hands and eyes to heaven he said : " Great gods, I accept 
these omens, and believe them to be happy ; fulfil them, and 
confirm my hope !" His breast glowed with new ardor as he 
spoke, and he rushed forward to the mouth of the pit. 

The thick smoke, which rendered it fatal to all that ap- 
proached it, immediately disappeared, and the pestilential 
stench was for a while suspended. He entered the cavern 
alone, for who would have dared to follow him ? Two Cretans 
to whom he had communicated his design, and who accompa- 
nied him part of the way, remained, pale and trembling, in a 
temple at some distance, putting up prayers for his deliverance, 
but despairing of his return. 

Telemachus, in the mean time, plunged into the darkness 
before him, having his sword drawn in his hand. In a few 
minutes he perceived a feeble and dusky light, like that which 
is seen ^t midnight upon the earth : he could also distinguish 



448 WORKS OF FENELOIS. 

airy shades that fluttered round him, which he dispersed with 
his sword ; and soon after he discovered the mournful banks of 
the Styx, whose waters, polluted by the marshes they cover, 
move slowly in a sullen stream that returns in perpetual eddies 
upon itself. Here he perceived an innumerable multitude of 
those who, having been denied the rites of sepulture, presented 
themselves to inexorable Charon in vain. Charon, whose old 
age, though vigorous and immortal, is dwr/ys gloomy and 
severe, kept them back with menaces and reproach ; but he 
admitted the young Greek into his bark as soon as he came up. 1 
The ear of Telemachus, the moment he entered, was struck 
with the groans of inconsolable grief. " Who art thou ?" said 
he to the complaining shade, " and what is thy misfortune ?" 
" I was," replied the phantom, " Nabopharzan, the king of 
Babylon the Great. All the nations of the East trembled at the 
sound of my name, and I compelled the Babylonians to worship 
me in a temple of marble, where I was represented by a statue 
of gold, before which the most costly perfumes of Ethiopia 
were burnt night and day. No man contradicted me without 
instant punishment, and ingenuity was constantly upon the 
stretch to discover some new pleasure that might heighten the 
luxury of my life. I was then in the full bloom and vigor of 
youth, and life, with all its pomp and pleasures, was still 
before me. But, alas ! a woman whom I loved with a passion 
that she did not return, too soon convinced me that I was not 
a god : she gave me poison, and I now am nothing. Yester- 
day they deposited my ashes with great solemnity in a golden 
urn ; they wept, they tore their hair, and seemed ready to 
throw themselves on the funeral pile, that they might perish 
with me. They are now surrounding the superb mausoleum 
in which they placed my remains with all the external parade 
of sorrow, but secretly, and in sincerity, I am regretted by 
none. Even my family hold my memory in abhorrence, and 
here I am already suffering the most horrible treatment." 



1 Most of this paragraph is copied from Virgil. The whole passage is in 
imitation of the sixth book of the uEneid. — Ed. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 449 

An object so deplorable touched the breast of Telemachus 
with pity. " And were you then truly happy," said he, " dur- 
ing your reign ? \ JDid you taste that sweet tranquillity, with- 
out which the heart shrinks and withers like a blighted flower?" 
" Far from it," replied the monarch ; " I know not even what 
you mean. A peace like this, indeed, has been extolled by 
the sages, as the only good ; but I never felt it. My heart 
was perpetually agitated by new desires, and throbbing with 
fear and hope. I wished that passion should perpetually suc- 
ceed to passion, with a tumultuous rapidity which excluded 
thought; and practised every artifice to effect it. This was 
my expedient to avoid the pangs of reflection ; such was the 
peace I procured, and I thought all other a fable and a dream. 
Such pleasures as these 1 now regret." 

During this relation, Nabopharzan wept with the effeminate 
pusillanimity of a man enervated by good fortune — unac- 
quainted with adversity, and therefore a stranger to fortitude. 
There were with him some slaves, who had been put to death 
to honor his funeral, and whom Mercury had delivered to 
Charon with their king, giving them, at the same time, an 
absolute power over him, who had been their tyrant upon 
earth. The shades of these slaves no longer feared the shade 
of Nabopharzan ; they held him in a chain, and treated him 
with the most cruel indignity. " As men," said one of them, 
" had we not the same nature with thee ? How couldst thou 
be so stupid as to imagine thyself a god, and forget that thy 
parents were mortal ?" " His unwillingness to be taken for a 
man," said another, " was right ; for he was a monster, without 
humanity." " Well," said another, " what has become of thy 
flatterers now ? Poor wretch ! there is now nothing that thou 
canst either give or takeaway; thou hast now become the 
slave even of thy slaves. The justice of the gods is slow, but 
it is certain." 

Nabopharzan, stung with these insults, threw himself upon 
his face in an agony of rage and despair ; but Charon bade 
the slaves pull him up by his chain. " He must not," said 
he, " be allowed the consolation even of hiding his shame, of 



450 ^JVORKS OF FENELON. 



which all the ghosts that throng the borders of the Styx must | 
be witnesses, that the gods, who so long suffered this impious 
tyrant to oppress the earth, may at last be justified. Yet this, 
O scourge of Babylon, is but the beginning of sorrows ; the 
judgment of Minos, impartial and inexorable, is at hand !" 

The bark now touched the dominions of Pluto, and thej 
shades ran down in crowds to the shore, gazing, with the! 
utmost curiosity and wonder, at the living mortal who stood 
distinguished among the dead in the boat ; but, the moment 
Telemachus set his foot on the shore, they vanished like the 
darkness of night before the first beams of morning. Then 
Charon, turning towards him, with a brow less contracted into 
frowns than usual, said to him : " favored of heaven, since'j 
thou art permitted to enter the realms of darkness, which tot 
all the living, besides thyself, are interdicted, make haste to go 
whithersoever the Fates have called thee; proceed by thio 
gloomy path to the palace of Pluto, whom thou wilt find 
sitting upon his throne, who will permit thee to enter those 
recesses of his dominion, the secrets of which I am not per-i 
mitted to reveal." 

Telemachus, immediately pressing forward with a hasty step,, 
discovered the shades gliding about on every side, more numer- 
ous than the sands on the sea-shore ; and he was struck witij 
a religious dread to perceive that, in the midst of the tumult 
and hurry of this incredible multitude, all was silent as th( 
grave. He sees, at length, the gloomy residence of unrelent 
ing Pluto : his hair stands erect, his legs tremble, and hi.' 
voice fails him. " Tremendous power !" said he, with falter- 
ing and interrupted speech, " the son of unhappy Ulysses now 
stands before thee. I come to inquire whether my father is 
descended into your dominions, or whether he is still a wan 
derer upon the earth ?" 

Pluto was seated upon a throne of ebony : his countenance j 
was pale and severe, his eyes hollow and ardent, and his brow 
contracted and menacing. The sight of a mortal still breath- v . 
ing the breath of life was hateful to his eyes, as the day is a ; 
hateful to those animals that leave their recesses only by night, a , 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK XIV. 451 

At his side sat Proserpine, who was the only object of his at- 
tention, and seemed to soften him into some degree of com- 
placency. She enjoyed a beauty that was perpetually renewed, 
but there was mingled with her immortal charms something 
of her lord's inflexible severity. 

At the foot of the throne sat the pale father of destruction, 
Death, incessantly whetting a scythe which he held in his 
hand. Around this horrid spectre hovered repining Cares and 
injurious Suspicions; Vengeance, distained with blood and 
covered with wounds ; causeless Hatred ; Avarice, gnawing 
her own flesh ; Despair, the victim of her own rage ; Ambi- 
tion, whose fury overturns all things like a whirlwind ; Treason, 
thirsting for blood, and not able to enjoy the mischief she pro- 
duces ; Envy, shedding round her the venom that corrodes 
her heart, and sickening with rage at the impotence of her 
malice ; Impiety, that opens for herself a gulf without bottom, 
in which she shall plunge at last without hope ; Spectres, all 
hideous to behold; Phantoms, that represent the dead to 
terrify the living ; frightful Dreams ; and the horrid Vigils of 
disease and pain. By these images of woe was Pluto sur- 
rounded : such were the attendants that filled his palace. He 
replied to the son of Ulysses in a hollow tone, and the depths 
of Erebus remurmured to the sound : " If it is by fate, young 
mortal, that thou hast violated this sacred asylum of the dead, 
that fate, which has thus distinguished thee, fulfil. Of thy 
father I will tell thee nothing ; it is enough that here thou art 
permitted to seek him. As upon the earth he was a king, thy 

K search may be confined, on one side, to that part of Tartarus 
where wicked kings are consigned to punishment, and, on the 
other, to that part of Elysium, where the good receive their 
reward. But, from hence thou canst not enter the fields of 
Elysium till thou hast passed through Tartarus. Make haste 
thither, and linger not in my dominions." 

Teiemachus instantly obeyed, and passed through the dreary 
vacuity that surrounded him with such speed that he seemed 
almost to fly; such was his impatience to behold his father 
and to quit the presence of a tyrant equally the terror of the 



4:52 WORKS OF FENELON. 

living and the dead. He soon perceived the gloomy tract of 
Tartarus at a small distance before him : from this place 
ascended a black cloud of pestilential smoke, which would 
have been fatal in the realms of life. This smoke hovered 
over a river of fire, the flames of which, returning upon 
themselves, roared in a burning vortex with a noise like that 
of an impetuous torrent precipitated from the highest rock, so 
that in this region of woe no other sound could be distinctly- 
heard. 

Telemachus, secretly animated by Minerva, entered the gulf 
without fear. He first saw a great number of men, who, born 
in a mean condition, were now punished for having sought to 
acquire riches by fraud, treachery, and violence. Among 
them he remarked many of those impious hypocrites, who, 
affecting a zeal for religion, played upon the credulity of others, 
and gratified their own ambition. These wretches, who had 
abused virtue itself, the best gift of heaven, to dishonest pur- 
poses, were punished as the most criminal of men. Children 
who had murdered their parents, wives who had imbrued their 
' hands in their husbands' blood, and traitors who had sold their 
country in violation of every tie, were punished with less 
severity than these. Such was the decree pronounced by the 
judges of the dead, because hypocrites are not content to be 
wicked upon the common terms ; they would be vicious, with 
the reputation of virtue; and by an appearance of virtue, 
which at length is found to be false, they prevent mankind 
from putting confidence in the true. The gods, whose om- 
niscience they mock and whose honor they degrade, take 
pleasure in the exertion of all their power to avenge the 
insult. 

After these appeared others, to whom the world scarcely 
imputes guilt, but whom the divine vengeance pursues without 
pity — the liar, the ingrate, the parasite who lavishes adulation 
upon vice, and the slanderer who falsely detracts from virtue — 
all those who judge rashly of what they know but in part, and 
thus injure the reputation of the innocent. 

But, among all who suffered for ingratitude, those were 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 453 

punished with most severity who had been ungrateful to the 
gods. " What !" said Minos, " is he considered as a monster 
who is guilty of ingratitude to his father or his friend, from 
whom he has received some such benefits as mortals can be- 
stow, and shall the wretch glory in his crime who is ungrateful 
to the gods, the givers of life and of every blessing it includes ? 
Does he not owe his existence rather to the authors of nature 
than to the parents through whom his existence was derived ? 
The less these crimes are censured and punished upon earth, 
the more are they obnoxious in hell to implacable vengeance, 
which no force can resist and no subtlety elude." 

Telemachus, seeing a man condemned by the judges, whom 
he found sitting, ventured to ask them what was his crime. 
He was immediately answered by the offender himself. " I 
have done," said he, "no evil; my pleasure consisted wholly 
in doing good. I have been just, munificent, liberal, and com- 
passionate ; of what crime, then, can I be accused?" "With 
respect to man," replied Minos, " thou art accused of none ; but 
didst thou not owe less to man than to the gods ? If so, what 
( are thy pretensions to justice ? Thou hast punctually fulfilled 
1 thy duty to men, who are but dust ; thou hast been virtuous, 
but thy virtue terminated wholly in thyself, without reference 
to the gods who gave it : thy virtue was to be thy own felicity, 
and to thyself thou wast all in all. Thou hast, indeed, been 
thy own deity. But the gods, by whom all things have been 
created, and who have created all things for themselves, cannot 
I give up their rights : thou hast forgotten them, and they will 
forget thee. Since thou hast desired to exist for thyself, and 
not for them, to thyself they will deliver thee up. Seek, then, 
thy consolation in thine own heart. Thou art separated forever 
from man, whom, for thy own sake, thou hast desired to please, 
and art left to thyself alone, that idol of thy heart. Learn now, 
at least, that piety is that virtue of which the gods are the object, 
and that without this no virtue can deserve the name. The 
false lustre of that with which thou hast long dazzled the eyes 
of men, who are easily deceived, will deceive no more. Men 
distinguish that only from whi^-h they derive pain or pleasure, 



454 WOKKS OF FENKLON. 

into virtue and vice, and are, therefore, alike ignorant botli of 
good and evil : but here the perspicacity of divine wisdom 
discerns all things as they are; the judgment of men, from 
external appearance, is reversed; what they have admired is 
frequently condemned, and what they have condemned, ap- 
proved." 

These words, to the boaster of philosophic virtue, were like a 
stroke of thunder, and he was unable to sustain the shock. 
The self-complaisance with which he had been used to contem- 
plate his moderation, his fortitude, his generosity, was now 
changed to despair. The view of his own heart, at enmity 
with the gods, became his punishment. He now saw, and was 
doomed forever to see, himself by the light of truth. He per- 
ceived that the approbation of men, which all his actions had 
been directed to acquire, was erroneous and vain. When he 
looked inward, he found every thing totally changed; he was 
no longer the same being, and all comfort was eradicated from 
his heart. His conscience, which had hitherto witnessed in his 
favor, now rose up against him, and reproached him even with 
nis virtues, which, not having deity for their principle and end, 
were erroneous and illusive. He was overwhelmed with con- 
sternation and trouble, with shame, remorse, and despair. The 
Furies, indeed, forbore to torment him ; he was delivered over 
to himself, and they were satisfied ; his own heart was the 
avenger of the gods, whom he had despised. As he could not 
escape from himself, he retired to the most gloomy recesses, 
that he might be concealed from others : he sought for dark- 
ness, but he found it not; light still persecuted and pursued 
him : the light of truth, which he had not followed, now pun- 
ished him for the neglect. All that he had beheld with pleas- 
ure became odious in his eyes, as the source of misery that 
could never end. " O fool !" said he ; "I have known neither 
the gods, men, nor myself; I have, indeed, known nothing, 
since I have not known the only and true good. All my steps 
have deviated from the path 1 should have trodden ; all my 
wisdom was folly and all my virtue was pride, which sacrificed, 
with a blind impiety, only to that vile idol, myself!" 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 455 

The next objects that Telemachus perceived, as he went on, 
were kings that had abused their power. An avenging Fury 
held up before them a mirror which reflected their vices in all 
their deformity. In this they beheld their undistinguishing 
vanity, that was gratified by the grossest adulation ; their 
want of feeling for mankind, whose happiness should have 
been the first object of their attention ; their insensibility to 
virtue, their dread of truth, their partiality to flatterers, their 
dissipation, effeminacy, and indolence ; their causeless suspi- 
cions; their vain parade and ostentatious splendor, an idle 
blaze, in which the public welfare is consumed; their ambi- 
tion of false honor, procured at the expense of blood ; and 
their inhuman luxury, which extorted a perpetual supply of 
superfluous delicacies from the wretched victims of grief and 
anguish. When they looked into this mirror, they saw them- 
selves faithfully represented ; and they found the picture more 
monstrous and horrid than the Chimera vanquished by Beller- 
ophon, the Lernsean hydra slain by Hercules, and even Cer- 
berus himself, though from his three howling mouths he dis- 
gorges a stream of black venomous blood, that is sufficient to 
infect the whole race of mortals that breathe upon the earth. 1 

At the same time another Fury tauntingly repeated all the 
praises which sycophants had lavished upon them in their 
lives, and held up another mirror, in which they appeared as 
flattery had represented them. The contrast of these pictures, 
widely different, was the punishment of their vanity. It was 
remarkable that the most wicked were the objects of the most 
extravagant praise ; because the most wicked are most to be 
feared, and because they exact, with less shame, the servile 
adulation of the poets and orators of their time. 

Their groans perpetually ascended from this dreadful abyss, 
where they saw nothing but the derision and insult of which 
they were themselves the objects — where every thing repulsed, 
opposed, and confounded them. As they sported with the 



1 " A pestilential steam and an infectious poison issue from his triple- 
tongued mouth." — Horace, III., od. xi. 



456 WORKS OF FENELON. 

lives of mankind upon the earth, and pretended that the whole 
species were created for their use, they were, in Tartarus, 
delivered over to the capricious tyranny of slaves, who made 
them taste all the bitterness of servitude in their turn. They 
obeyed with unutterable anguish, and without hope that the 
iron hand of oppression would lie lighter upon them. Under 
the strokes of these slaves, now their merciless tyrants, they 
lay passive and impotent, like an anvil under the hammers of 
the Cyclops, when Vulcan urges their labor at the flaming 
furnaces of Mount ^Etna. 

Telemachus observed the countenance of these criminals to 
be pale and ghastly, strongly expressive of the torment they 
suffered at the heart. They looked inward with a self-abhor- 
rence, now inseparable from their existence. Their crimes 
themselves had become their punishment, and it was not 
necessary that greater should be inflicted. They haunted 
them like hideous spectres, and continually started up before 
them in all their enormity. They wished for a second death, 
that might separate them from these ministers of vengeance, 
as the first had separated their spirits from the body — a death 
that might at once extinguish all consciousness and sensibility. 
They called upon the depths of hell to hide them from the 
persecuting beams of truth, in impenetrable darkness; but 
they are reserved for the cup of vengeance, which, though 
they drink of it forever, shall be ever full. The truth, from 
which they fled, has overtaken them, an invincible and unre- 
lenting enemy. The ray which once might have illuminated 
them, like the mild radiance of the day, now pierces them like 
lightning — a fierce and fatal fire, that, without injury to the 
external parts, infixes a burning torment at the heart. By 
truth, now an avenging flame, the very soul is melted, like 
metal in a furnace ; it dissolves all, but destroys nothing ; it 
disunites the first elements of life, yet the sufferer can never 
die. He is, as it were, divided against himself, without rest 
and without comfort ; animated by no vital principle, but the 
rage that kindles at his own misconduct, and the dreadful 
madness that results from despair. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 457 

Among these objects, at the sight of which the hair 01 
Telemachus stood erect, he beheld many of the ancient kings 
of Lydia who were punished for having preferred the selfish 
gratification of an idle and voluptuous life, to that labor for 
the good of others, which, to royalty, is a duty of indispensa- 
ble obligation. 

These kings mutually reproached each other with their 
folly. " Did I not often recommend to you," said one of them 
to his son, " during the last years of my life, when old age had 
given weight to my counsel, the reparation of the mischiefs 
that my negligence had produced ?" " Unhappy father I" 
replied the son, " thou art the cause of my perdition ; it was 
thy example that made me vain-glorious, proud, voluptuous, 
and cruel. While I saw thee surrounded with flattery, and 
relaxed into luxury and sloth, I also insensibly acquired the 
love of pleasure and adulation. I thought the rest of men 
were to kings what horses and other beasts of burden are to 
men — animals wholly unworthy of regard, except for the 
drudgery they perform and the conveniences they procure. 
This was my opinion, and I learnt it of thee. I followed thy 
example, and share thy misery." These reproaches were 
mingled with the most horrid execrations : mutual rage and 
indignation aggravated the torments of hell. 

Around these wretched princes there still hovered, like owls 
in the twilight, causeless Jealousies and vain Alarms, Mistrust 
and Dread, which revenge upon kings their disregard of man- 
kind ; Avarice, insatiable of wealth ;' False-Honor, ever tyran- 
nical and oppressive ; and effeminate Luxury, a deceitful demon 
that aggravates every evil, and bestows only imaginary good. 

Many kings were also severely punished, not for the mis- 
chief they had done, but for the good they had neglected to 
do. Every crime that is committed by the subject in conse- 
quence of laws not enforced, is the crime of the kings, for 
kings reign only as ministers of the law. To kings also are 
imputed ail the disorders that arise from pomp, luxury, and 

1 Auri sacra fames. — Virgil, uEn,., iii. 
20 



458 WORKS OF FENELON. 

every other excess which excites irregular and impetuous pas- 
sions that cannot be gratified but by the violation of the com- 
mon rights of mankind. But the princes who, instead of watch- 
ing over their people as a shepherd watches over his flock, 
worried and devoured them like the wolf, were punished with 
the most exemplary sever*y. 

In this abyss of darkness and misery, Telemachus beheld, with 
yet greater astonishment, many kings who had been honored 
for their personal virtues upon earth, but were, notwithstand- 
ing, condemned to the pains of Tartarus for having left the ad- 
ministration of government to wicked and crafty men. They 
were punished for mischiefs which they had suffered to be per- 
petrated under the sanction of their authority, The greater 
part of them, indeed, had been by principle neither virtuous 
nor vicious; supinely taking the color impressed upon them 
from without, they did not shun the truth when it presented 
itself, but they had no relish for virtue, no delight in doing 
good. 

When Telemachus left Tartarus, he felt himself relieved, as 
if a mountain had been removed from his breast. This relief, 
so sudden and so great, impressed him with a strong sense of 
the misery of those who are confined there without hope of 
deliverance. lie was terrified at having seen so many kings 
punished with much greater severity than any other orienders. 
"Have kings, then," said he, "so many duties to fulfil, so 
many difficulties to surmount, and so many dangers to avoid ? 
Is the knowledge that is necessary to put them upon their guard, 
as well against themselves as others, so difficult to be acquired ? 
and, after all the envy, tumult, and opposition of a transitory 
life, are they consigned to the intolerable and eternal pains of 
hell ? What folly, then, to wish for royalty ! How happy the 
peaceful private stalion, in which the practice of virtue is com- 
paratively easy !" 

These reflections filled him with confusion and trouble ; his 
knees trembled, his heart throbbed with perturbation, and he 
felt something of that hopeless misery which he had just wit- 
nessed. But the further he advanced from the realms of dark- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 459 

ness, despair, and horror, the more he felt his courage reviving 
in his breast : he breathed with greater freedom, and perceived, 
at a distance, the pure and blissful light which brightens the 
residence of heroic virtue. 

In this place resided all the good kings who had wisely 
governed mankind from the begin n, ig of time. They were 
separated from the rest of the just; for, as wicked princes 
suffer more dreadful punishment than other offenders in Tar- 
tarus, so good kings enjoy infinitely greater felicity than other 
lovers of virtue, in the fields of Elysium. 

Telemachus advanced towards these kings, whom he found 
in groves of delightful fragrance, reclining upon the downy 
turf, where the flowers and herbage were perpetually renewed. 
A thousand rills wandered through these scenes of delight, 
and refreshed the soil with a gentle and unpolluted wave ; the 
song of innumerable birds echoed in the groves. Spring 
strewed the ground with her flowers, while at the same time 
autumn loaded the trees with her fruit. In this place the 
burning heat of the dog-star was never felt, and the stormy 
north was forbidden to scatter over it the frosts of winter. 
Neither War that thirsts for blood, nor Envy that bites with 
an envenomed tooth, like the vipers that are wreathed around 
her arms and fostered in her bosom, nor Jealousy, nor Distrust, 
nor Fears, nor vain Desires, invade these sacred domains of 
peace. The day is here without end, and the shades of night 
are unknown. Here the bodies of the blessed are clothed 
with a pure and lambent light, as with a garment. This light 
does not resemble that vouchsafed to mortals upon earth, 
which is rather darkness visible ; ( it is rather a celestial glory 
than a. light — an emanation that penetrates the grossest body 
with more subtlety than the rays of the sun penetrate the 
purest crystal which rather strengthens than dazzles the sight, 
and diffuses through the soul a serenity which no language 
can express. By this ethereal essence the blessed are sus- 
tained in everlasting life ; it pervades them ; it is incorporated 
with them, as food with the mortal body ; they see it, they 
feel it, they breathe it, and it produces in them an inexhausti- 



460 WORKS OF FENELON. 

ble source of serenity and joy. It is a fountain of delight, in 
which they are absorbed as fishes are absorbed in the sea ; they 
wish for nothing, and, having nothing, they possess all things. 
This celestial light satiates the hunger of the soul ; every desire 
is precluded ; and they have a fulness of joy which sets them 
above all that mortals seek with such restless ardor, to fill the 
vacuity that aches forever in their breast. All the delightful 
objects that surround them are disregarded, for their felicity 
springs up within, and, being perfect, can derive nothing from 
without. So the gods, satiated with nectar and ambrosia, dis- 
dain, as gross and impure, all the dainties of the most luxuri- 
ous table upon earth. From these seats of tranquillity all 
evils fly far away : death, disease, poverty, pain, regret, re- 
morse, fear, even hope — which is sometimes not less painful 
than fear itself — animosity, disgust, and resentment, can never 
enter there. 

The lofty mountains of Thrace, whose summits, hoary with 
everlasting snows, have pierced the clouds from the beginning 
of time, might sooner be overturned from their foundations, 
though deep as the centre of the earth, than the peace of 
these happy beings be interrupted for a moment. They are, 
indeed, touched with pity at the miseries of life; but it is a 
soothing and tender passion that takes nothing from their im- 
mutable felicity. Their countenances shine with a divine glory, 
with the bloom of unfading youth, with the brightness of 
everlasting joy. Their joy is superior to the wanton levity of 
mirth ; it is calm, silent, and solemn ; it is the sublime fruition 
of truth and virtue. They feel every moment what a mother 
feels at the return of an only son whom she believed to be 
dead ; but the pleasure, which in the breast of the mother is 
transient, is permanent in theirs ; it can neither languish nor 
cease. They have all the gladness that is inspired by wine, 
without either the tumult or the folly. 

They converse together concerning what they see, and what 
they enjoy ; they despise the opprobrious luxury and idle pomp 
of their former condition, which they review with disgust and 
regret ; they enjoy the remembrance of their difficulties and 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 161 

distress during the short period in which, to maintain their 
integrity, it was necessary they should strive, not only against 
others, but themselves ; and they acknowledge the guidance 
and pretection of the gods, who conducted them in safety 
through so man dangers, with gratitude and admiration. 
Something ineffable and divine is continually poured into their 
hearts; something like an efflux of divinity itself, which in- 
corporates with their own nature. They see, they feel, that 
they are happy, and are secretly conscious that they shall be 
happy forever. They sing the praises of the gods as with 
one voice ; in the whole assembly there is but one mind and 
one heart, and the same stream of divine felicity circulates 
through every breast. 

In this sacred and supreme delight whole ages glide away 
imperceived, and seem shorter than the happiest hours upon 
earth ; and gliding ages still leave their happiness ever new 
and ever complete. They reign together, not upon thrones, 
vihich the hand of man can overturn, but in themselves, with 
a power that is absolute and immutable, not derived from with- 
out, or dependent upon a despicable and wretched multitude 
They are not distinguished by the crowns that so often conceal 
under a false lustre, the mournful gloom of anxiety and terror. 
The gcds themselves have placed upon their heads diadems of 
everlasting splendor, the symbols and the pledge of happiness 
and immortality. 

Telemachus, who looked here for his father in vain, was so 
struck with the calm but sublime enjoyments of the place, that 
he was now grieved not to find him among the dead, and 
lamented the necessity he was under himself of returning back 
to the living. " It is here alone," said he, " that there is real 
life ; the shadow only, and not the reality, is to be found upon 
earth." He observed, however, with astonishment, that the 
number of kings that were punished in Tartarus was great, 
and the number of those that were rewarded in Elysium was 
small. From this he inferred that there w T ere but few princes 
whose fortitude could effectually resist their own power, and 
the flattery by which their passions were continually excited, 



4:62 WORKS OF FENELON. 

He perceived that good kings were, for this reason, rare, and 
that the greater number are so wicked, that if the gods, after 
having suffered them to abuse their power during life, were 
not to punish them among the dead, they would cease to be 
just. 

Telemachus, not seeing his father Ulysses among these happy 
few, looked round for his grandfather, the divine Laertes. 
While his eyes were ineffectually employed in this search, an 
old man advanced towards him, whose appearance was in the 
highest degree venerable and majestic. His old age did not 
resemble that of men who bend under the weight of years 
upon earth ; it was a kind of nameless indication that he had 
been old before he died ; it was something that blended all the 
dignity of age with all the graces of youth, for to those who 
enter the fields of Elysium, however old and decrepit, the 
graces of youth are immediately restored. This venerable 
figure came up hastily to Telemachus, and looked upon him 
with a familiar complacency as one whom he knew and loved. 
The youth, to whom he was wholly a stranger, stood silent in 
confusion and suspense. 

" I perceive, my son," said the shade, " that thou dost not 
recollect me ; but I am not offended. I am Arcesius, the father 
of Laertes. My days upon earth were finished a little before 
Ulysses, my grandson, went from Ithaca to the siege of Troy. 
Thou wast yet an infant in the arms of thy nurse, but I had 
then conceived hopes of thee which are now justified, since 
thou hast descended into the dominions of Pluto in search of 
thy father, and the gods have sustained thee in the attempt. 
The gods, O fortunate youth, regard thee with peculiar love, 
and will distinguish thee by glory equal to that of Ulysses. I 
am happy once more to behold thee ; but search for Ulysses no 
more among the dead ; he still lives, and is reserved to render 
my line illustrious by new honors at Ithaca. Laertes himself, 
though the hand of time is now heavy upon him, still draws 
the breath of life, and expects that his son will return to close 
his eyes. Thus transitory is man, like the flower that blows in 
the morning, and in the evening is withered, and trodden 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 463 

under foot. One generation passes away after another, like 
the waves of a rapid river ; and Time, rushing on with silent but 
irresistible speed, carries with him all that can best pretend to 
permanence and stability. Even thou, my son — alas ! even 
thou, who art now happy in the vigor, the vivacity, and the 
bloom of youth, shalt rind this lovely season, so fruitful of 
delight, a transient flower that fades as soon as it is blown ; 
without having been conscious that thou wert changing, thou 
wilt perceive thyself changed ; the train of graces and pleas- 
ures that now sport around thee, health, vigor, and joy, shall 
vanish like the phantoms of a dream, and leave thee nothing 
but a mournful remembrance that they once were thine. Old 
age shall insensibly steal upon thee, — that enemy to joy shall 
diffuse through thee his own languors, — shall contract thy 
brow into wrinkles, incline thy body to the earth, enfeeble 
every limb, and dry up forever that fountain of delight which 
now springs in thy breast, — thou shalt look around upon all 
that is present with disgust, anticipate all that is future with 
dread, and retain sensibility only for pain and anguish. 

" This time appears to thee to be far distant : alas ! thou art 
deceived ; it approaches with irresistible rapidity, and is there- 
fore at hand : that which draws near so fast can never be 
remote ; and the present, forever flying, is remote already ; 
even while we speak it is past, and it returns no more. Let 
the present, therefore, be light in thy estimation ; tread the 
path of virtue, however rugged, with perseverance, and fix 
thine eye upon futurity. Let purity of manners and a love of 
justice secure thee a place in this happy residence of peace. 

" Thou shalt soon see thy father resume his authority in 
Ithaca, and it is decreed that thou shalt succeed him on the 
throne. But royalty, my son, is a deceitful thing : those 
who behold it at a distance see nothing but greatness, splendor, 
and delight ; those who examine it near find only toil, perplex- 
ity, solicitude, and fear. In a private station a life of ease and 
obscurity is no reproach. A king cannot prefer ease and 
leisure to the painful labors of government, without infamy. 
He must live, not for himself, but for those he governs. The 



364: WORKS OF FENELON. 

least fault he commits produces infinite mischief, for it diffuses 
misery through a whole people, and sometimes for many gen- 
erations. It is his duty to humble the insolence of guilt, to 
support innocence, and repress calumny. It is not enough to 
abstain from doing evil ; he must exert himself to the utter- 
most in doing good. Neither will it suffice to do good as an 
individual ; he must prevent the mischief that others would do, 
if they were not restrained. Think then of royalty, O my 
son, as a state not of ease and security, but of difficulty and 
danger. Call up all thy courage to resist thyself, to control 
thy passions, and disappoint flattery." 

While Arcesius was speaking, he seemed to glow with the 
divine ardor of inspiration ; and when he displayed the miser- 
ies of royalty, Telemachus perceived in his countenance strong 
expressions of pity. "Royalty," said he, "when it is assumed 
to procure selfish indulgences, degenerates into tyranny ; when 
it is assumed to fulfil its duties, to govern, cherish, and protect 
an innumerable people, as a father protects, cherishes, and 
governs his children, it is a servitude most laborious and pain- 
ful, and requires the fortitude and patience of heroic virtue. 
It is, however, certain that those who fulfil the duties of gov- 
ernment with diligence and integrity, shall here possess all 
that the power of the gods can bestow to render happiness 
complete." , 

While Telemachus listened to this discourse, it sank, deep 
into his heart ; it was engraven upon that living tablet, as a 
sculptor engraves upon brass the characters which he would 
transmit to the latest generation. It was an emanation of 
truth and wisdom, that like a subtle flame pervaded the most 
secret recesses of his soul ; it moved and warmed him at once, 
and he felt his heart, as it were, dissolved by a divine energy 
not to be expressed, by something that exhausted the fountain 
of life. His emotion was a kind of desire that could not be 
satisfied — an impulse that he could neither support nor resist — 
a sensation exquisitely pleasing, and yet mixed with such pain 
as it was impossible long to endure and live. 

After some time its violence abated, he breathed with more 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 465 

freedom, and he discovered in the countenance of Arcesius a 
strong likeness to Laertes. He had also a confused remem- 
brance of something similar in the features of Ulysses when 
he set out for the siege of Troy. 

This remembrance melted him into tears of tenderness and 
joy ; he wished to embrace a person whom he now regarded 
with reverence and affection, and attempted it many times in 
vain ; the shade, light and unsubstantial, eluded his grasp, as 
the flattering images of a dream deceive those who expect to 
enjoy them :' the thirsty lip is sometimes in pursuit of water 
that recedes before it ; sometimes the imagination forms words 
which the tongue refuses to utter, and sometimes the hand is 
eagerly stretched out, but can grasp nothing : so the tender 
wish of Telemachus could not be gratified — he beheld Arcesius, 
he heard him speak, and he spoke to him, but to touch him 
was impossible. At length he inquired who the persons were 
that he saw around him. 

" You see," said the hoary sage, " those who were the orna- 
ment of their age, and the glory and happiness of mankind. 
You see the few kings who have been worthy of dominion, 
and filled the character of deities upon earth. Those whom 
you see not far distant, but separated from them by that small 
cloud, are allotted a much inferior glory : they were heroes in- 
deed, but the reward of courage and prowess is much less than 
that of wisdom, integrity, and benevolence. 

" Among those heroes you see Theseus, whose countenance 
is not perfectly cheerful. Some sense of his misfortune in 
placing too much confidence in a false and designing woman 
still remains, and he still regrets having unjustly demanded 
the death of his son Hippolytus at the hands of Neptune. 
Happy had it been for Theseus had he been less liable to 
sudden anger ! You see also Achilles, who, having been mor- 
tally wounded in the heel by Paris, supports himself upon a 



i " There thrice he attempted to throw his arms around his neck ; thrice 
the phantom grasped in vain, escaped his hands, like the light winds or a 
e winged dream/' — Virgil, JEn., vi. 700. 

20* 



466 WOBKS OF FENELON. 

spear. If he had been as eminent for wisdom, justice, and 
moderation as for courage, the gods would have granted him a 
long reign ; but they had compassion for the nations whom he 
would have governed by a natural succession, after the death of 
Peleus his father, and would not leave them at the mercy of a 
man more easily irritated than the sea by a tempest. The 
thread of his life was cut short by the Fates, and he fell as a 
iiower scarcely blown falls under the ploughshare, and withers 1 
before the day is past in which it sprung up. The gods made 
use of him only as they do of torrents and tempests, to punish 
men for their crimes ; he was the instrument by which they 
overthrew the walls of Troy, to punish the perjury of Laome- 
don, and the criminal desires of Paris. When this was done 
they were appeased ; and they were implored in vain, even 
by the tears of Thetis, to suffer a young hero to remain 
longer upon the earth, who was fit only to destroy cities, tot 
subvert kingdoms, and to fill the world with contusion and 
trouble. 

" You see another, remarkable for the ferocity of his coun- ■ 
tenance ; that is Ajax, the son of Telamon, and the cousin of- 
Achilles. You cannot be ignorant of his glory in battle. 1 
After the death of Achilles he laid claim to his arms, which $ 
he said ought not to be given to another; but they were 
claimed also by your father, who insisted upon his right : the > 
Greeks determined in favor of Ulysses. Ajax slew himself in . 
despair : the marks of rage and indignation are still visible in 1 
his countenance. Approach him not, my son, for he will think ,f 
you come to insult the misfortune that you ought to pity, j 
He has discovered us already, and he rushes into the thick 
shade of the wood that is behind him, to avoid a sight that is 
hateful to his eyes. On the other side you see Hector, who 
would have been invincible, if the son of Thetis had lived in 
another age. That gliding shade is Agamemnon, whose 
countenance still expresses a sense of the perfidy of Clytem- 

1 " As when a purple flower cut down by the plough droops dying."— 
Virgil, ^£n. % ix. 435. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 467 

nestra. my son, the misfortunes that have avenged the 
impiety of Tantalus in his family still make me tremble : the 
mutual enmity of the two brothers, Atreus and Thyestes, filled 
the house of their father with horror and death. Alas ! how 
is one crime, by a kind of dreadful necessity, the cause of more ! 
Agamemnon returned in triumph from the siege of Troy, but 
no time was allowed him to enjoy in peace the glory he had 
acquired in war. Such is the late of almost all conquerors. 
All that you see have been great in battle, but they have neither 
been amiable nor virtuous, and they enjoy only the second place 
in the fields of Elysium. 

" Those who have reigned with justice and loved their peo- 
ple, are considered as the friends of the gods ; while Achilles 
and Agamemnon, still full of their quarrels and their combats, 
are not perfect even here, but retain their natural defects, and 
sutler the infelicity they produce. These heroes regret in vain 
the life that they have lost, and grieve at their change from 
substance to shade. But the kings who with an equal hand 
have dispensed justice and mercy, being purified by the divine 
light which perpetually renovates their being, feel their wishes 
anticipated, and their happiness complete. They look back 
upon the vain solicitude of mankind with compassion, and the 
great affairs that busy ambition seem to them like the plays of 
children. They drink of truth and virtue at the fountain 
head, and are satisfied they can suffer nothing, either from 
themselves or others ; they have no wants, no wishes, no fears, — 
with respect to them all is finished, except their joy, which 
shall have no end. • 

"The venerable figure you see yonder is Inachus, who 
founded the kingdom of Argos. The character of old age is 
tempered with ineffable sweetness and majesty : he moves with 
: a light and gliding pace that resembles the flight of a bird, 
and may be traced by the flowers that spring up under his 
feet ; he holds a lyre of ivory in his hand, and an eternal 
rapture impels him to celebrate the wonders of the gods with 
eternal praise. His breath is full of fragrance, like the breath 
of the morning in spring; and the harmony of his voice and 



468 WORKS OF FENELON. 

his lyre miglit add to the felicity, not only of Elysium, but of 
Olympus. This is the reward of his paternal affection to the 
people whom he surrounded with the walls of a new city, and 
secured in the blessings of society by legislation. 

" Among these myrtles, at a little distance, you see also 
Cecrops the Egyptian, the first sovereign of Athens, a city 
dedicated to the Goddess of Wisdom, whose name it bears 
Cecrops by bringing excellent laws from Egypt, the great 
source from which learning and good morals have flowed 
through all Greece, softened the natural ferocity of the people 
that he found in the scattered villages of Attica, and united 
them by the bonds of society. He was just, humane, and 
compassionate ; he left his people in affluence, and his family 
in mediocrity ; for he was not willing that his children should 
succeed to his power, because there were others whom he 
judged more worthy of the trust. 

" But I must now show you Ericthon : you see him in that 
little valley. Ericthon was the first who introduced the use of 
silver as money, in order to facilitate commerce among the , 
islands of Greece ; but he foresaw the inconveniences which 
would naturally result from his invention. * Apply yourselves/ 
he said to the people, * to accumulate natural riches, for they 
only deserve the name. Cultivate the earth, that you may 
have wealth in corn and wine, oil and fruit; n ultiply your 
flocks to the utmost, that you may be nourished by their milk, 
and clothed with their wool, and it will then be impossible 
that you should be poor. The increase even of your children 
will be the increase of your wealth, if you inure them early 
to diligence and labor ; for the earth is inexhaustible, and will 
be more fruitful in proportion as it is cultivated by more 
hands : it will reward labor with boundless liberality, but to 
idleness it will be parsimonious and severe. Seek principally, 
therefore, for that which is truly wealth, as it supplies that 
which is truly want. Make no account of money, but as it is 
useful either to support necessary wars abroad, or for the pur- 
chase of such commodities as are wanted at home : still it 
would be desirable that no commerce should be carried on in 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 469 

articles that can only support and gratify luxury, vanity, and 
doth. 

" * My children,' said the wise Ericthon, who thought fre- 
quent admonition necessary, * I greatly fear that I have made 
you a fatal present. I foresee that this money will excite ava- 
rice and ambition, the lust of the eye and the pride of life ; 
that it will produce innumerable arts, which can only corrupt 
rirtne and gratify idleness ; that it will destroy your relish for 
that happy simplicity which is at once the blessing and the 
security of life ; and that it will make you look with contempt 
upon agriculture, the support of our existence, and the source 
of every valuable possession. But I call the gods to witness 
that I made you acquainted with money, a thing useful in 
itself, in the integrity of my heart !' Ericthon, however, hav- 
ing lived to see the mischiefs that he dreaded come to pass, 
retired, overwhelmed with grief, to a desert mountain, where 
he lived to an extreme old age, in poverty and solitude, dis- 
gusted with government, and deploring the folly of mankind. 

" Not long afterwards Greece beheld a new wonder in Trip- 
tolenms, to whom Ceres had taught the art of cultivating the 
earth, and of covering it every year with a golden harvest. 
Mankind were indeed already acquainted with corn, and the 
manner of multiplying it by seed, but they knew only the first 
rudiments of tillage ; and Triptolemus, being sent by Ceres, 
came, with the plough in his hand, to offer the bounty of that 
goddess to all who had spirit to surmount the natural love of 
ease, and apply themselves diligently to labor. The Greeks 
soon learnt of Triptolemus to part the earth into furrows, and 
render it fertile by breaking up the surface. The yellow corn 
soon strewed the fields under the sickle of the reapers. Even 
the wandering barbarians that were dispersed in the forests of 
Epirus and Etolia, seeking acorns for their subsistence, when 
they had learnt to sow corn and make bread, threw off their 
ferocity, and submitted to the laws of civil society. 

* Triptolemus made the Greeks sensible of the pleasure that 
is to be found in that independent wealth which a man derives 
from his own labor, and in the possession of all the necessaries 



470 WOTCKS OF FENELON. 

and conveniences of life as the genuine produce of his own 
field. This abundance, so simple and so blameless, arising 
from agriculture, recalled to their minds the counsel of Eric- 
thon. They held money in contempt, and all other factitious 
wealth, which has no value but in the imaginations which 
tempts men to dangerous pleasures, and diverts them from that 
labor which alone supplies all that is of real value with inno- 
cence and liberty. They were now convinced that a paternal 
field, with a kindly soil and diligent cultivation, was the best 
inheritance for those who were wisely content with the simple 
plenty that contented their fathers. Happy would it have 
been for the Greeks if they had steadily adhered to these 
maxims, so fit to render them free, powerful, and happy ; and 
to inspire and maintain a uniform and active virtue, which 
would have made them worthy of such blessings ! But, alas ! 
they began to admire false riches ; by degrees they neglected 
the true, and they degenerated from this admirable simplicity. 

" O my son, the sceptre of thy father shall one day descend 
to thee ; in that day remember to lead thy people back to agri- 
culture, to honor the art, to encourage those that practise it, 
and to suffer no man either to live in idleness, or employ him- 
self only to propagate luxury and sloth. These men, who 
governed with such benevolence and wisdom upon earth, are 
here the favorites of heaven. They were, in comparison with 
Achilles and other heroes, who excelled only in war, what the 
gentle and genial gales of spring are to the desolating storms 
of winter ; and they now as far surpass them in glory as the 
sun surpasses the moon in splendor." 

While Arcesius was thus speaking, he perceived that Telem- 
achus had fixed his eyes upon a little grove of laurels, and a 
rivulet of pure water that was bordered with roses, violets, 
lilies, and a thousand other odoriferous flowers, the vivid colors 
of which resembled those of Iris, when she descends upon 
earth with some message from the gods to man. He saw in 
this delightful spot an inhabitant of Elysium, whom he knew 
to be Sesostris. There was now a majesty in the appearance 
of this great prince infinitely superior to that which distin- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XIV. 471 

guished him upon the throne of Egypt. His eyes sparkled 
with a divine radiance that Telemachus could not steadfastly 
behold. He appeared to have drank, even to excess, of im- 
■ mortality and joy : such was the rapture, beyond all that 
mortals have the power to feel, which the divine spirit, as the 
reward of virtue, had poured into his breast. 

" O my father," said Telemachus to Arcesius, " I know him ; 
it is Sesostris, the wise and good, whom I beheld, not long 
since, upon his throne in Egypt." 

" It is he," replied Arcesius ; " and in him you have an ex- 
ample of the boundless liberality with which good kings are 
rewarded by the gods ; yet all the felicity which now over- 
flows in his bosom and sparkles in his eyes, is nothing in com- 
parison of what he would have enjoyed, if, in the excess of his 
prosperity, he had been still moderate and just. An ardent 
desire to abase the pride and insolence of the Tyrians, im- 
pelled him to take their city. This acquisition kindled a de- 
sire of more, and he was seduced by the vain-glory of a con- 
queror : he subdued, or rather he ravaged all Asia. At his 
return into Egypt, he found the throne usurped by his brother, 
who had rendered the best laws of the country ineffectual, by 
an iniquitous administration. His conquest of other king- 
doms, therefore, served only to throw his own into confusion ; 
yet he was so intoxicated with the vanity of conquest, that he 
harnessed the princes whom he had subdued to his chariot. 1 
This was less excusable than all the rest ; but he became, at 
length, sensible of his fault and ashamed of his inhumanity. 
Such was the fruit of his victories ; and the great Sesostris 
has left an example of the injury done by a conqueror to his 
country and himself when he usurps the dominions of others. 
This degraded the character of a prince in other respects so 
just and beneficent ; and this has diminished the glory which 
the gods intended for his reward. 

44 But seest thou not another shade, my son, distinguished 
by a wound, and a lambent light that plays around it like a 

» We have the authority of Pliny for tint.— Hist. Nat. t xxxiii. § 15. 



472 WORKS OF FENELON. 

glory ? That is Dioclides, a king of Caria, who voluntarily 
gave up his life in battle because an oracle had foretold that, 
in a war between the Carians and Lycians, the nation whose 
king should be slain would be victorious. 

" Observe yet another : that is a wise legislator, who, having 
instituted such laws as could not fail to render his people vir- 
tuous and happy, and bound them by a solemn oath not to 
violate them in his absence, immediately disappeared, became 
a voluntary exile from his country, and died poor and un- 
noticed on a foreign shore, that his people might, by that oath, 
be obliged to keep his laws inviolate forever. 

" He, whom thou seest not far off from these, is Eunesimus, 
a king of Pylos and an ancestor of Nestor. During a pesti- 
lence that desolated the earth and crowded the banks of Ache- 
ron with shades newly dismissed from above, he requested of 
the gods that he might be permitted to redeem the lives of 
his people with his own. The gods granted his request, and 
have here rewarded it with felicity and honor, in comparison of 
which all that royalty upon earth can bestow is vain and un- 
substantial, like a shadow or a dream. 

"That old man whom you see crowned with flowers is 
Belus. He reigned in Egypt, and espoused Anchinoe, the 
daughter of the god Nilus, who fertilizes the earth with a flood 
that he pours over it from a secret source. He had two sons, — 
Danaus, whose history you know, and Egyptus, from whom 
that mighty kingdom derives its name. Belus thought him- 
self more enriched by the plenty which he diffused among his 
people and the love that he acquired in return, than by all the 
levies he could have raised if he had taxed them to the utmost. 
These, my son, whom you believe to be dead, these only are 
the living ; those are the dead who languish upon earth, the 
victims of disease and sorrow : the terms are inverted, and 
should be restoxed to their proper place. May the gods vouch- 
safe thee such virtue as this life shall reward — a life which 
nothing shall embitter or destroy. But haste thee, now, from 
this world to which thou art yet unborn : it is time the search 
for thy father should be renewed. Alas ! what scenes of blood 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XTV. 473 

shalt thou behold before lie is found! What glory awaits 
thee in the fields of Hesperia! Remember the counsels of 
Mentor : let these be the guide of thy life, and thy name shall 
be great to the utmost limits of the earth and the remotest 
period of time !" 

Such was the admonition of Arcesius, and he immediately 
conducted Telemachus to the ivory 1 gate that leads from the 
gloomy dominions of Pluto. Telemachus parted from him 
with tears in his eyes ; but it was not possible to embrace him ; 
and, leaving behind him the shades of everlasting night, he 
made haste back to the camp of the allies, having joined the 
two young Cretans in his way, who had accompanied him to 
the mouth of the cavern and despaired of his return. 

i "And dismissed them by the ivory gate."— Virgil, ^En. t vi. 897. 



BOOK XV. 



Venusium havingr been left as a deposit by both parties in the hands of the 
Lucanians. Telemachus declares against seizing it in an assembly of the 
chiefs, and persuades them to be of his opinion. He discovers great 
penetration and sagacity with respect to two deserters, one of whom, 
Acanthus, had undertaken to poison him ; and the other, 1/ioseorus, had 
offered to bring him Adrastus' head. In the battle which soon after 
follows, Telemachus strews the field with dead in search of Adrastus. 
Adrastus, who is also in search of Telemachus, engages and kills Pisis- 
tratus, the son of Nestor; 1'hiloctetes comes up, and, at the moment 
when he is about to pierce Adrastus, is himself wounded, and obliged to 
retire. Telemachus, alarmed by the cry of his friends, among whom 
Adrastus is making a terrible slaughter, rushes to their assistance. He 
engages Adrastus, and prescribes conditions upon which he yives him 
his life. Adrastus, rising from the ground, attempts treacherously to 
kill his conqueror by surprise, who engages him a second time, and kills 
him. 

In the mean time, che chiefs assembled in council to delib- 
erate whether they should take possession of Venusium. It 
was a strong town that had been formerly taken by Adrastus 
from a neighboring people, the Peucetian Apulians, who had 
now entered into the alliance that was formed against him, to 
obtain satisfaction for the injury. Adrastus, to soften their 
resentment, had put the town into the hands of the Lucani- 
ans : he had, however, at the same time corrupted the Lucani- 
an garrison and its commander with money, so that he had 
still more authority in Venusium than the Lucanians; and 
tne Apulians, who had consented that Venusium should be 
garrisoned with Lucanian forces, were thus defrauded in the 
negotiation. 

A citizen of Venusium, whose name was Demophantes, hac: 
secretly offered to put the allies in possession of one of the 
gates by night ; an advantage which was of the greater im- 
portance, as Adrastus had placed his magazine of military stores 



TELEMACHtJS. — BOOK XT. 475 

and provisions in a neighboring castle, which could not hold 
out agninst an enemy that was in possession of Venusium. 
Philoctetes and Nestor had already given their opinion that 
this offer should be accepted. The rest of the chiefs influ- 
enced by their authority, and struck with the facility of the 
enterprise and its immediate advantages, applauded their de- 
termination ; but Telemachus, as soon as he returned, exerted 
his utmost, abilities to set it aside. 

u I confess," said he, " that if any man can deserve to be 
surprised and deceived, it is Adrastus, who has practised fraud 
against everybody. I am sensible that the surprise of Venu- 
sium will only put you in possession of a town which by right 
is yours already, because it belongs to the Apulians, who are 
confederates in your expedition. I also acknowledge that you 
may improve this opportunity with the greater appearance oi 
justice, as Adrastus, who has made a deposit of the town in 
question, has at the same time corrupted the commander and 
the garrison, to suffer him to enter it whenever he shall think 
fit. In fine, I am convinced, as well as you, that if you should 
take possession of. Venusium to-day you would to-morrow be 
masters of the neighboring castle, in which Adrastus has 
formed his magazine, and that, the day following, this formida- 
ble war would be at an end. But is it not better to perish 
than to conquer by means like these ? Must fraud be counter- 
acted by fraud ? Shall it be said that so many kings, who 
united to punish the perfidy of Adrastus, were themselves per- 
fidious ? If we can adopt the practices of Adrastus without 
guilt, Adrastus himself is innocent, and our attempt to punish 
him injurious. Has all Hesperia — sustained by so many colonies 
of Greece, by so many heroes returned from the siege of Troy — 
no other arms to oppose the fraud and treachery of Adrastus 
than treachery and fraud ? 

" You have sworn by all that is most sacred to leave Venu- 
sium a deposit in the hands of the Lucanians. The Lucanian 
garrison, you say, is corrupted by Adrastus, and I believe it to 
be true, but this garrison is still Lucanian ; it receives the pay 
of the Lucanians, and has not yet refused to obey them ; it 



476 WORKS OP FENELON. 

has preserved, at least, an appearance of neutrality ; neither 
Adrastus nor his people have yet entered it; the treaty is still 
subsisting, and the god-; have not forgotten your oath. Is a 
promise never to be kept but when a plausible pretext to break 
it is wanting? Shall an oath be sacred only when nothing is 
to be gained by its violation ? If you are insensible to the 
love of virtue and fear of the gods, have you no regard to 
your interest and reputation ? If you give so pernicious an 
example to mankind, by breaking your promise and violating 
your oath, in order to put an end to a war, how many wars 
will this impious conduct excite ? By which of your neighbors 
will you not be at once dreaded and abhorred ? By whom will 
you afterwards be trusted in the most pressing necessity? 
What security can you give for your faith, when you design to 
keep it ; and how will you convince your neighbors that you 
intend no fraud, even when you are sincere? Shall this 
security be a solemn treaty ? — you have trodden treaties under 
foot. Shall it be an oath ? — will not they know that you have 
set the gods at defiance when you can derive any advantage 
from perjury ? With respect to you, peace will be a state of 
no greater security than war. Whatever you do will be con- 
sidered as the operation of war, either secret or avowed. 
You will be the constant enemies of all who have the misfor- 
tune to be your neighbors. Every affair which requires repu- 
tation, probity, or confidence, will to you become impractica- 
ble, and you will never be able to make any promise that can 
be believed. 

" But there is another interest yet nearer and more pressing 
which must strike you, if you are not lost to all sense of prob- 
ity, and wholly blind to your advantage : a conduct so perfidi- 
ous will be a canker in the very heart of your alliance, which it 
must finally destroy. The fraud that you are abcut to practise 
against Adrastus, will inevitably render him victorious." 

At these words the assembly demanded, with great emo- 
tion, how he could take upon him to affirm that the alliance 
would be ruined by a measure that would procure them certain 
and immediate victory. 



TELEMACHTJS.— BOOK XV. 477 

"How can you," said he, "confide in each other, if you 
violate the only bond of society and confidence — your plighted 
faith ? After you have admitted this maxim, that the laws of 
honesty and truth may be violated to secure a considerable 
advantage, who among you would confide in another, when 
that other may secure a considerable advantage by breaking 
his promise and defrauding you ? When this is the case, what 
will be your situation ? Which of you would not practise 
fraud, to preclude the fraudulent practises of his neighbor ? 
What must become of an alliance consisting of so many na- 
tions, each of which has a separate interest, when it is agreed 
among them, in a public deliberation, that every one is at 
liberty to circumvent his neighbor and violate his engage- 
ments ? Will not the immediate consequence be distrust and 
dissension ; an impatience to destroy each other, excited by 
the dread of being destroyed ? Adrastus will have no need to 
attack you : you will effect his purpose upon yourselves, and 
justify the perfidy you combined to punish. 

"Ye mighty chiefs, renowned for magnanimity and wis- 
dom, who govern innumerable people with experienced com- 
mand, despise not the counsel of a youth. Whatever is your 
danger and distress, your resources should be diligence and 
virtue. True fortitude can never despair; but if once you 
pass the barrier of integrity and honor, your retreat is cut off, 
and your ruin inevitable — you can never more establish that 
confidence without which no affair of importance can suc- 
ceed — you can never make those hold virtue sacred whom 
you have once taught to despise it. And, after all, what have 
you to fear ? Will not your courage conquer without so base 
an auxiliary as fraud ? Are not your own powers and the 
strength of united nations sufficient ? Let us fight, and if we 
must, let us die ; but let us not conquer with the loss of virtue 
and of fame. Adrastus, the impious Adrastus, is in our power, 
and nothing can deliver him but our participation in the crimes 
that expose him to the wrath of heaven." 

When Telemachus had done speaking, he perceived that his 
words had carried conviction to the heart. He observed that 



478 WORKS OF FENELON. 

of all who were present not one offered to reply ; their thoughts 
were fixed, not indeed upon him, nor the graces of his elocu- 
tion, but upon the truths that he had displayed. At first, all 
was silent astonishment, expressed only by the countenance ; 
but after a short time a confused murmur spread by degrees 
through the whole assembly : they looked upon each other, 
and all were impatient to declare their sentiments, though every 
one was afraid to speak first, It was expected that the chiefs 
of the army should give their opinion, and the venerable Nes- 
tor at length spoke as follows : 

" The gods, O son of Ulysses, have spoken by thy voice ; 
Minerva, who has so often inspired thy father, has suggested 
to thee the wise and generous counsel thou hast given us. I 
think not of thy youth, for when I hear thee, Pallas only is 
present to my mind. Thou hast been the advocate of virtue. 
The greatest advantage without virtue is lost ; without virtue, 
men are suddenly overtaken by the vengeance of their ene- 
mies, they are distrusted by their friends, abhorred by good 
men, and exposed to the righteous anger of the gods. Let us 
then leave Venusium in the hands of the Lucanians, and think 
of defeating Adrastus only by our own courage." 

Thus Nestor spoke, and the whole assembly applauded ; but 
their eyes were fixed upon Telemachus, and every one thought 
he saw the wisdom of the goddess that inspired him, glowing 
in his countenance. 

This question being determined, the council began imme- 
diately to debate another, in which Telemachus acquired equal 
reputation. Adrastus, with a perfidy and Cruelty natural to 
his character, had sent one Acanthus into the camp as a de- 
serter, who had undertaken to destroy the principal command- 
ers of the army by poison, and had a particular charge not 
to spare Telemachus, who had already become the terror of 
the Daunians. Telemachus, who was too generous and brave 
easily to entertain suspicion, readily admitted this wretch to 
his presence, and treated him with great kindness ; for, having 
seen Ulysses in Sicily, he recommended himself by relating his 
adventures Telemachus took him under his immediate pro- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XV. 4:79 

tection, and consoled him under his misfortunes, for he pre- 
tended to have been defrauded and treated with indignity by 
Adrastus. Telemachus, however, was warming and cherish- 
ing a viper in his bosom that was quite ready to give him a 
mortal wound. 

Acanthus had dispatched another deserter, whose name was 
Arion, from the camp of the allies to Adrastus, with particular 
intelligence of his situation, and assurances that he would give 
poison to the chief commanders, and in particular to Telem- 
achus, the next day at an entertainment, to which he had been 
invited as a guest. It happened that this man was detected and 
seized as he was escaping from the camp, and in the terror and 
confusion of conscious guilt he confessed his treachery. Acan- 
thus was suspected of having been his accomplice, because a 
remarkable intimacy had been observed between them ; but 
Acanthus, who had great courage, and was profoundly skilled 
in dissimulation, made so artful a defence that nothing could 
be proved against him, nor could the conspiracy be traced to 
its source. 

Many of the princes were of opinion that he ought cer- 
tainly to be sacrificed to the public safety. " He must, at all 
events," said they, " be put to death ; for the life of a private 
individual is nothing in comparison with the lives of so many 
kings. It is possible he may die innocent, but that considera- 
tion should have no weight, when the vicegerents of the gods 
are to be secured from danger." 

" This horrid maxim," said Telemachus, " this barbarous 
policy, is a disgrace to human nature. Is the blood of men to 
be so lightly spilt, and are they to be thus wantonly destroyed 
by those that are set over them only for their preservation ? 
The gods have made you to mankind what the shepherd is to 
his flock, and will you degrade yourselves into wolves, and 
worry and devour those whom you ought to cherish and pro- 
tect ? Upon your principle, to be accused and to be guilty is 
the same thing, and every one that is suspected must die. 
Envy and calumny will destroy innocence at pleasure ; the op- 
Dressed will be sacrificed to the oppressor, and in proportion 



480 WORKS OF FENELON. 

as tyranny makes kings distrustful, judicial murderers will de- 
populate the State." 

Telemachus uttered this remonstrance with a vehemence 
and authority that gave it invincible force, and covered those 
who gave the counsel he had reproved with confusion. He per- 
ceived it, and softened his voice. " As for myself,'' s-id he, " I 
am not so fond of life as to secure it upon such terms. I had 
rather Acanthus should be wicked than Telemachus, and 
would more willingly perish by his treason than destroy him 
unjustly, while I doubt his crime. A king is, by his office, the 
judge of his people, and his decision should be directed by 
wisdom, justice, and moderation : let me, then, examine Acan- 
thus in your presence." 

Every one acquiesced, and Telemachus immediately ques- 
tioned him concerning his connection with Arion. He pressed 
him with a great variety of particulars, and he frequently toot 
occasion to intimate a design of sending him back to Adrastus 
as a deserter : this, if he had really deserted, would have 
alarmed him ; for Adrastus would certainly have punished him 
with death : but Telemachus, who watched the effect of this 
experiment with great attention, perceived not the least token 
of fear either in his countenance or his voice, and therefore, 
thought it probable that he was guilty of conspiracy. Not 
being able, however, fully to convict him, he demanded his 
ring. " I will send it," said he, " to Adrastus." At this de- 
mand Acanthus turned pale. Telemachus, who kept his eyes 
fixed upon him, perceived that he was in great confusion. The 
ring being delivered, Telemachus said : " I will send Polytro- 
pus, a Lucanian, whom you well know, to Adrastus, as a mes- 
senger dispatched with private intelligence from you, and he 
shall produce this ring as a token. If it is acknowledged by 
Adrastus, and by this means we discover that you are his 
emissary, you shall be put to death by torture ; but if you will 
now voluntarily confess your guilt, we will remit the punish- 
ment it deserves, and only banish you to some remote island, 
where every thing shall be provided for your subsistence." 
Acanthus, being now urged both by fear and hope, made a full 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XV. 481 

confession, and Telemachus prevailed with the kings to give 
him his life, as he had promised it. He was sent into one of 
the Echinadian islands, where he passed his days in security 
and peace. 

Not long afterwards, a Daunian of obscure birth, but of a 
daring and violent spirit, whose name was Dioscorus, came into 
the camp of the allies by night, and offered to assassinate 
Adrastus in his tent. This offer it was in his power to make 
good, for whoever despises his own life, can command that of 
another. Dioscorus had no wish but for revenge, for Adrastus 
had forcibly taken away his wife whom he loved to distraction, 
and who was equal in beauty to Venus herself. He had de- 
termined either to kill the tyrant and recover his wife, or 
perish in the attempt. He had received secret instructions 
jiow to enter the tent in the night, and had learnt that his 
enterprise would be favored by many officers in the service; 
but he thought that it would also be necessary that the allies 
should attack the camp at the same time, as the confusion 
would facilitate his escape, and afford him a fairer opportunity 
to carry off his wife. 

As soon as this man had made the confederate princes ac- 
quainted with his design, they turned towards Telemachus, as 
referring implicitly to his decision. 

*' The gods," said he, " who have preserved us from traitors, 
forbid us to employ them. It would be our interest to reject 
treachery if we had not sufficient virtue to detest it ; if we 
should once practise it against others, our example would 
justify others in the practice of it against us. Then who 
among us will be safe ? If Adrastus should avoid the mischief 
that threatens him, it will recoil upon ourselves. The nature 
of war will be changed ; military skill and heroic virtue will 
have no object, and we shall see nothing but perfidy, treason, 
and assassination. We shall ourselves experience their fatal 
effects, and deserve to suffer every evil to which we have given 
sanction by our practice. I am, therefore, of opinion that we 
ought to send back this traitor to Adrastus — not for his sake, 
indeed, but the eyes of all Hesperia, and of all Greece, are 
21 



482 WORKS OF FENELON. 

upon us, and we owe this testimony of our abhorrence of per- 
fidy to them and to ourselves ; we owe it also to the gods, for 
the gods are just." 

Dioscorus was sent away to Adrastus, who trembled at the 
review of his danger, and was beyond expression amazed at 
the generosity of his enemies, for the wicked have no idea of 
disinterested virtue. He contemplated what had happened with 
admiration, and a secret and involuntary praise ; but he did 
not dare to applaud it openly, being conscious that it would 
condemn himself; it brought into his mind the fraud and 
cruelty he had practised, with a painful sense both of guil' 
and shame. He endeavored to account for appearances, with 
out imputing to bis enemies such virtue as he could not emu 
late ; and, while he felt himself indebted to them for his life ; 
he could not think of ingratitude without compunction ; but, 
in those who are habitually wicked, remorse is of short dura- 
tion. Adrastus, who saw the reputation of the allies perpetu- 
ally increasing, thought it absolutely necessary to attempt 
something of importance against them immediately. As he 
found they must of necessity foil him in virtue, he could only 
hope to gain advantage over them in arms, and therefore pre- 
pared to give them battle without delay. 

The day of action arrived, and Aurora had scarcely strewed 
her roses' in the path of the sun, and thrown open the gates 
of the east before him, when Telemachus, anticipating the 
vigilance of experience and age, broke from the soft embraces 
of sleep and put all the commanders in motion. His helmet, 
covered with horse-hair that floated in the wind, already glit- 
tered upon his head ; his cuirass on his back dazzled the eyes 
of the whole army ; and his shield, the work of Vulcan, had, 
besides its natural beauty, a divine effulgence, which it derived 
from the aegis of Minerva that was concealed under it. In one 
hand he held a lance, and, with the other, he pointed out the 
posts which the several divisions of the army were to occupy. 



» " The wHtchful Aurora opened her purple doors in the ruddy east, and 
her halls filled with roseB."— Ovid, Met., ii. 112. 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XV. 483 

Minerva had given a fire to his eye that was more than 
human, and animated his countenance with an expression of 
awful majesty that seemed to be an earnest of victory. He 
marched, and all the princes of the confederacy, forgetting 
their dignity and their age, followed him by an irresistible im- 
pulse. Their hearts were inaccessible even to envy; and 
every one yielded, with a spontaneous obedience, to him who 
was under the immediate but invisible conduct of Minerva. 
There was now nothing impetuous or precipitate in his de- 
portment; he possessed himself with the most placid tran- 
quillity and condescending patience; he was ready to hear 
every opinion, and to improve every hint ; but he showed also 
the greatest activity, vigilance, and foresight; he provided 
against the remotest contingencies ; he was neither discon- 
certed himself, nor disconcerted by others; he excused all 
mistakes, regulated all that was amiss, and obviated difficulties, 
even in their causes, before they could take effect ; he ex- 
acted no unreasonable service, left every man at liberty, and 
enjoyed every man's confidence. 

When he gave an order, he expressed himself with the 
greatest plainness and perspicuity ; he repeated it, to assist the 
apprehension and memory of those that were to execute it. 
He consulted their looks while he was speaking, to know 
whether he was perfectly understood, and he made them ex- 
press their sense of his orders in their own words. When he 
had satisfied himself of the abilities of the persons he em- 
ployed, and perceived that they perfectly entered into his 
views, he never dismissed them without some mark of his 
esteem and confidence. All, therefore, that were engaged in 
the execution of his designs, were interested in success, from 
a principle of love to their commander, whom they wished, 
more than all things, to please. Nor was their activity re- 
strained by the fear of having misfortune imputed to them as 
a fault, for he blamed none that were unsuccessful by mistake, 
if their intentions appeared to have been good. 

The first rays of the sun now tinged the horizon with a 
glowing red, and the sea sparkled with the reflected fires of 



484 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the rising day. The plain was thronged with men and arms, 
and horses and chariots were everywhere in motion. An 
almost infinite variety of sounds produced a loud but contused 
noise, like that of the sea, when a mighty tempest, at the com- 
mand of Neptune, moves the world of waters to its foundation. 
Mars, by the din of arms, and the dreadful apparatus of war. 
began to scatter the seeds of rage in every breast. Spears 
stood erect in the field as thick as corn that hides the furrows 
of the plough in autumn. A cloud of dust rose in the air, 
which hid both heaven and earth by degrees from the sight of 
man. Inexorable Death advanced, with Confusion, Horror, 
and Carnage in his train. 

The moment the first flight of arrows were discharged, Te- 
lemachus, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, pronounced 
these words : " Jupiter, father both of gods and men ! thou 
seest justice on our side ; and peace, which we have not been 
ashamed to seek. We draw the sword with reluctance, and 
would spare the blood of man. Against even this enemy, 
however cruel, perfidious, and profane, we have no malice. 
Judge, therefore, between him and us. If we must die, it i* 
thy hand that resumes the life it has given. If Hesperia is to 
be delivered, and the tyrant abased, it is thy power, and the 
wisdom of Minerva, that shall give us victory. The glory will 
be due to thee, for the fate of battle is weighed in thy balance. 
We fight in thy behalf, for thou art righteous ; and Adrastus 
is therefore more thy enemy than ours. If, in thy behalf, 
we conquer, the blood of a whole hecatomb shall smoke upon 
thy altars before the day is past." 

Then, shaking the reins over the fiery and foaming coursers 
of his chariot, he rushed into the thickest of the enemy. The 
first that opposed him was Periander the Locrian, covered 
with the skin of a lion, which he had slain while he was trav- 
elling in Cilicia. He was armed, like Hercules, with a club of 
enormous size ; he had the stature and the strength of a giant. 
As soon as he saw Telemachus, he despised his youth and the 
beauty of his countenance. " Is it for thee," said he, " effemi- 
nate boy, to dispute the glory of arms with us? Hence, child, 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XV. 485 

and seek thy father in the dominions of the dead !" He spoke, 
and lifted up his ponderous and knotted mace against him ; it 
was studded with spikes of steel, and had the appearance of ? 
mast. All that were near trembled at its descent; but Telem- 
achus avoided the blow, and rushed upon his enemy with a 
rapidity equal to the flight of an eagle. The mace, falling upon 
the wheel of a chariot that was near him, dashed it to pieces. 
Before Periander could recover it, Telemachus pierced his neck 
with a dart. The blood, which gushed in a torrent from the 
wound, instantly stifled his voice ; his hand relaxed ; and the 
reins falling upon the neck of his coursers, they started away 
with ungoverned fury. He fell from the chariot; his eyes were 
suffused with everlasting darkness; on his disfigured coun- 
tenance w r as depicted pale death. Telemachus was touched 
with pity at the sight, and immediately gave the body to his 
attendants, reserving to himself the lion's skin and mace as 
trophies of victory. 

He then sought Adrastus in the thickest of the battle, and 
overturned a crowd of heroes in his way : Hyleus, who had 
harnessed to his chariot two coursers, bred in the vast plains 
that are watered by the Ausidius, and scarcely inferior to those 
of the sun ; Demoleon, who, in Sicily, had almost rivalled Eryx 
in combats with the cestus; Grantor, who had been the host 
and the friend of Hercules, when he passed through nesperia 
to punish the villanies of Cacus with death ; Menecrates, who, 
in wrestling, was said to have rivalled Pollux; Hippocoon the 
Salapian, who, in managing the horse, had the grace and dex- 
terity of Castor; the mighty hunter Eurymedes, who was 
always stained with the blood of bears and wild boars that he 
slew upon the frozen summits of the Apennines, and who was 
said to have been so great a favorite of Diana, that she taught 
him the use of the bow herself; Nicostrates, who had con- 
quered a giant among the rocks of Mount Garganus, that 
vomited fire; and Cleanthus, who was betrothed to the youth- 
ful Pholoe, daughter of the river Liris. She had been promised, 
by her father, to him who should deliver her from a winged 
serpent, which was bred on the borders of the stream, and 



486 WORKS OF FEKELON. 

which an oracle had predicted should, in a few days, devour 
her. Cleanthus, for the love of Pholoe, undertook to destroy 
the monster, and succeeded ; but the Fates withheld him from 
the fruits of his victory ; and, while Pholoe was preparing for 
their union, and expecting the return of her hero with a tender 
and timid joy, she learned that he had followed Adrastus to 
the war, and that his life was cut off by an untimely stroke. 
Her laments were borne to the surrounding woods and moun- 
tains upon every breeze; her eyes were burdened with tears; 
the flowers which she had wreathed into garlands were neg- 
lected ; she tore out her beautiful blonde hair, and, in the dis- 
traction of her grief, accused heaven of injustice. But the 
gods beheld her with compassion, and, accepting the prayers 
of her father, put an end to her distress. Her tears flowed in 
such abundance, that she was suddenly changed into a foun- 
tain, which at length mingled with the parent stream ; but the 
waters are still bitter ; no herbage blooms upon its banks, and 
no tree but the cypress refreshes them with a shade. 

In the mean time, Adrastus, who had learned that Telem- 
achus was spreading terror on every side, went in search of 
him with the utmost ardor and impatience. He hoped to find 
him an easy conquest, as he had yet scarcely acquired the 
strength of a man. The tyrant did not, however, trust wholly 
to this advantage, but took with him thirty Daunians, of un- 
common boldness, dexterity, and strength, to whom he had 
promised great rewards for killing Telemachus in any manner. 
If, at this time, they had met, and the thirty Daunians had 
surrounded the chariot of the young hero while Adrastus had 
attacked him in front, he would certainly have been cut off 
without difficulty ; but Minerva turned this formidable band 
another way. 

Adrastus, thinking he distinguished the voice and figure of 
Telemachus among a crowd of combatants that were engaged 
in a small hollow at the foot of a hill, rushed to the spot, that 
he might satiate his revenge ; but instead of Telemachus he 
found Nestor, who, with a feeble li^tnd, threw some random 
shafts that did no execution. Adrastus, in the rage of disap- 



TELEMACHT7S. BOOK XV. 487 

pointment, would instantly have slain him if a troop of Pyliana 
had not surrounded their king. 

And now a multitude of arrows obscured the day, and cov- 
ered the contending armies like a cloud. Nothing was to be 
heard but the groans of death, and the clashing armor of those 
that fell. The ground was loaded with mountains of slain, and 
deluged with rivers of blood. Mars and Bellona, attended by 
the infernal Furies, and clothed in garments that dropped with 
gore, enjoyed the horrors of the battle, and animated the com- 
batants with new fury. By these relentless deities, enemies to 
man, Pity, generous Valor, and mild Humanity were driven 
from the field. Slaughter, Revenge, Despair, and Cruelty 
raged amid the tumult without control. Minerva, the wise and 
invincible, shuddered, and turned with horror from the scene. 

Philoctetes, in the mean time, though he walked with diffi- 
culty with the shafts of Hercules, limped to the assistance of 
Nestor with all his might. Adrastus, not being able to pene- 
trate the guard of Pylians that surrounded him, laid many of 
them in the dust. He slew Ctesilas, who was so light of foot 
that he scarcely imprinted the sand, and in his own country 
left the rapid waves of Eurotas and Alpheus behind him. He 
overthrew also Euthyphron, who exceeded Hylas in beauty, 
and Hippolytus in the chase ; Pterelas, who had followed Nes- 
tor to the siege of Troy, and was beloved by Achilles for his 
prowess and valor ; Aristogiton, who, having bathed in the 
river Achelous, was said to have received from the deity of the 
stream the secret gift of assuming whatever form he desired, 
and who had, indeed, a suppleness and agility that eluded the 
strongest grasp ; but Adrastus, by one stroke of his lance, ren- 
dered him motionless forever, and his soul rushed from the 
wound with his blood. 

Nestor, who saw the bravest of his commanders fall under 
the cruel hand of Adrastus, as ears of corn ripened into a 
golden harvest fall before the sickle of the reaper, forgot the 
danger to which, tremulous and feeble with age, he exposed 
himself in vain. His attention was wholly fixed upon his son 
Pisistratus, whom he followed with his eve, as he was bravely 



488 WORKS OF FENELON. 

sustaining the party that defended his father. But now the 
fatal moment had come when Nestor was once more to feel 
the infelicity of having lived too long. 

Pisistratus made a stroke against Adrastus with his lance, so 
violent, that, if the Daunian had not avoided it, it must have 
been fatal. The assailant, having missed his blow, staggered 
with its force, and before he could recover his position Adras- 
tus wounded him with a javelin in the belly, llis bowels, in a 
torrent of blood, followed the weapon ; his color faded like a 
flower plucked in the meadow by a maiden ; his eyes became 
dim, and his voice faltered. Alcseus, his governor, who fought 
near him, sustained him as he fell, and had just time to place 
him in the arms of his father, before he expired. He looked 
up and made an effort to give the last token of his tenderness ; 
but, having opened his lips to speak, the spirit issued with his 
breath. 

Nestor, now defended against Adrastus by Philoctetes, who 
spread carnage and horror around him, still supported the body 
of his son, and pressed it in agony to his bosom. The light 
was now hateful to his eyes, and his passion burst out into 
exclamation and complaint. " Wretched man," said he, " to 
have been once a father, and to have lived so long ! Where- 
fore, inexorable Fates ! would ye not take my life when 1 was 
chasing the Calydonian boar, sailing in the expedition to Col- 
chis, or courting danger in the first siege of Troy ? I should 
then have died with glory, and tasted no bitterness in death. 
I now languish with age and sorrow ; I am now feeble and 
despised ; I live only to suffer, and have sensibility only for 
affliction. O my son ! O my dear son, Pisistratus ! when I 
lost thy brother Antilochus I had still thee to comfort me, but 
I now have thee no more ; I possess nothing and can receive 
no comfort ; with me all is at an end ; and even in hope, that 
only solace of human misery, I have no portion. my chil- 
dren ! Antilochus and Pisistratus ! I feel as if this day I had 
lost you both ; the first wound in my heart now bleeds afresh. 
Alas ! I shall see you no more ! Who shall close my eyes 
when I die, and who shall collect my ashes for the urn ? Thou 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK XV. 489 

hast died, ray dear Pisistratus, like thy brother, the death ol 
a hero ; and to die is forbidden only to me !" 

In this transport of grief he would have killed himself with 
a javelin that he held in his hand, but he was prevented by 
those that stood by. The body of his son was forced from his 
arms, and sinking under the conflict he fainted. He was car- 
ried, in a state of insensibility, to his tent, where, reviving 
soon after, lie would have returned to the combat, if he had 
not been restrained. 

In the mean time, Adrastus and Philoctetes were mutually in 
search of each other. Their eyes sparkled like those of the 
leopard and the lion, when they fight in the plains that are 
watered by the Cayster. Their looks were savage, and ex- 
pressed hostile fury and unrelenting vengeance. Every lance 
that they dismissed was fatal, and the surrounding warriors 
gazed at them with terror. At last they got sight of each 
other, and Philoctetes applied one of those dreadful arrows to 
his bow, which from his hand never missed the mark, and 
which inflicted a wound that no medicine could cure. But 
Mars, who favored the fearless cruelty of Adrastus, would not 
yet suffer him to perish. It was the pleasure of the god that 
he should prolong the horrors of war, and increase the number 
of the dead. Adrastus was still necessary to divine justice, for 
the punishment of man. 

Philoctetes, at the very moment when he was fitting the 
shaft against Adrastus, was himself wounded with a lance ; the 
blow was given by Amphimachus, a young Lucanian, more 
beautiful than Nireus, who, among all the commanders at the 
siege of Troy, was surpassed in person only by Achilles. Phi- 
loctetes, the moment he received the wound, discharged the 
arrow at Amphimachus. The weapon transfixed his heart. 
The lustre of his eyes, so beautifully black, was extinguished, 
and they were covered with the shades of death. His lips, in 
comparison with which the roses that Aurora scattered in the 
horizon are pale, lost their color. His countenance, so bloom- 
ing and lovely, became ghastly and disfigured. Philoctetes 
himself was touched with compassion. "When his body lay 



490 WORKS OF FENELON. 

weltering in his blood, and his tresses, which might have been 
mistaken for Apollo's, were trailed in the dust, every one 
lamented his fall. 

Philoctetes, having slain Amphimachus, was himself obliged 
to retire from the field ; he became feeble by the loss of blood ; 
and he had exerted himself so much in the battle that his old 
wound became painful, and seemed ready to break out afresh, 
for, notwithstanding the divine science of the sons of ^Escula- 
pius, the cure was not perfect. Thus exhausted, and ready to 
fall upon the heaps of slain that surrounded him, he was borne 
off by Archidamas, who excelled in dexterity and courage all 
the (Ebalians that he brought with him to found the city of 
Petilia, just at the moment when Adrastus might with ease 
have laid him dead at his feet. And now the tyrant found 
none that dared to resist him, or retard his victory. All his 
enemies had either fallen or fled, and he might justly be com- 
pared to a torrent, which, having overflowed its bounds, rushes 
on with tumultuous impetuosity, and sweeps away the harvest 
and the flock, the shepherd and the village, together. 

Telemachus heard the shouts of the victors at a distance, 
and saw his people flying before Adrastus with disorder and 
precipitation, like a herd of timid hinds, chat, pursued by the 
hunter, traverse the plain, rush through the forest, leap the 
precipice, and plunge into the flood. 

A groan issued from his breast, and his eyes sparkled with 
indignation. He quitted the spot where he had long fought 
with so much danger and glory, and hastened to sustain his 
party. He advanced, covered with the blood of a multitude 
whom he had extended in the dust ; and in his way he gave a 
shout that was at once heard by both armies. 

Minerva had communicated a kind of nameless terror to his 
voice, which the neighboring mountains returned. The voice 
even of Mars was never louder in Thrace, when he called up 
the infernal Furies, War and Death. The shout of Telema- 
chus animated his people with new courage, and chilled his 
enemies with fear ; Adrastus himself was moved, and blushed 
at the confusion he felt. A thousand fatal presages thrilled 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XV. 491 

him with secret horror, and he was actuated rather by despair 
than courage. His trembling knees thrice bent under him, 
and he thrice drew back, without knowing what he did ; his 
countenance faded to a deadly palor, and a cold sweat covered 
his body ; his voice became hollow, tremulous, and interrupted ; 
and a kind of sullen fire gleamed in his eyes, which appeared 
to be starting from their sockets. All his motions had the 
sudden violence of a convulsion, and he looked like Orestes, 
when he was possessed by the Furies. He now began to 
believe that there are gods ; he fancied that he saw them de- 
nouncing vengeance, and that he heard a hollow voice issuing 
from the depths of hell, and calling him to everlasting torment. 
Every thing impressed him with a sense that a divine and in- 
visible hand was raised against him, and that it would crush 
him in its descent. Hope was extinguished in his breast, and 
his courage fled, as light vanishes when the sun sets in the 
deep, and the earth is enveloped in the shades of night. 

Adrastus, whose tyranny would already have been too long, 
if the earth had not needed so severe a scourge, — the impious 
Adrastus had now filled up the measure of his iniquity, and 
his hour was come. He rushed forward to meet his fate : 
horror, remorse, consternation, fury, rage, and despair kept 
him company. At the first sight of Telemachus, he thought 
that Avernus opened at his feet, and the fiery waves of Phleg- 
ethon roared to receive him. He uttered a cry of terror, 
and his mouth continued open, but he was unable to speak ; 
like a man terrified with a frightful dream, who makes an 
effort to complain, but can articulate nothing. 1 He hurled a 
lance at Telemachus with tremor and precipitation. Telem- 
achus, serene and fearless as the friend of heaven, covered 
himself with his buckler ; victory seemed to overshadow him 
with her wings, and suspended a crown over his head ; in his 
eye there was something that expressed at once courage and 
tranquillity ; and such was his apparent superiority to danger, 
that he might have been taken for Minerva herself. He turned 

1 Close imitation of Virgil.— j£neid, xii. 908. 



4:92 WORKS OF FENELON. 

aside the lance that was thrown against him by Adrastus, who 
instantly drew his sword, that he might prevent Telemachus 
from discharging his lance in return. Telemachus, therefore, 
relinquished his spear, and, seeing the sword of Adrastus in his 
hand, immediately unsheathed his own. 

When the other combatants on each side saw them thus 
closely engaged, they laid down their arms, and, fixing their 
eyes upon them, waited in silence 1 for the event that would 
determine the war. Their swords flashed like the bolts of 
Jove when he thunders from the sky, and their polished 
armor resounded with the strokes. They advanced, retired, 
stooped, and sprung suddenly up ; till at length closing, each 
seized his antagonist at the same moment. The clasping ivy 
less closely embraces the elm, than these combatants each 
other. The strength of Adrastus was undiminished, but that of 
Telemachus was not yet mature. Adrastus frequently endeav- 
ored to surprise and stagger him, by a sudden and violent effort, 
but without success. He then endeavored to seize the young 
Greek's sword ; but the moment he relinquished his grasp for 
that purpose, Telemachus lifted him from the ground and laid 
him at his feet. In this dreadful moment the wretch, who 
had so long defied the gods, betrayed an unmanly fear of death. 
He was ashamed to beg his life, yet not able to suppress his 
desire to live, and endeavored to move Telemachus with com- 
passion. " son of Ulysses," said he, " I now acknowledge 
that there are gods, and that the gods are just : their righteous 
retribution has overtaken me. It is misfortune alone that opens 
our eyes to truth : I now see it, and it condemns me. But let an 
unhappy prince bring thy father, 2 now distant from his country, 
to thy remembrance, and touch thy breast with compassion." 

Telemachus, who kept the tyrant under him with his knee, 
and had raised the sword to dispatch him, suspended the blow. 
" I fight," said he, " only for victory and for peace ; not for 



i Virgil.— JZneid, xii. 704. 

2 " But revere the gods, O Achilles, and have pity on myself, remember- 
ing thy father." — Homer, Iliad, xxiv. 505. 



TKLEMACHUS. BOOK XV. 493 

vengeance or for blood. Live, then ; but live to atone for the 
wrongs you have committed ; restore the dominions you have 
usurped; establish justice and tranquillity upon the coast of 
Hesperia, which you have so long polluted by cruelty and 
fraud. Live, henceforth, a convert to truth and virtue. Learn 
from your defeat that the gods are just ; that the wicked are 
miserable; that to seek happiness in violence and deceit, is 
to insure disappointment; and that there is no enjoyment like 
the constant exercise of integrity and virtue. As a pledge of 
your sincerity, give us your son Metrodorus, and twelve chiefs 
of your nation, for hostages." 

Telemachus then suffered Adrastus to rise, and, not suspect- 
ing his insincerity, offered him his hand. But the tyrant, in this 
unguarded moment, perfidiously threw a short javelin at him, 
which he had hitherto kept concealed. The weapon was so 
keen, and thrown with such dexterity and strength, that it 
would have pierced the armor of Telemachus, if it had not 
been of divine temper. Adrastus, being now without arms, 
placed himself for security behind a tree. Telemachus then 
cried out : " Bear witness, Daunians, the victory is ours ! The 
life of your king was mine by conquest, and it is now forfeited 
by treachery. He that fears not the gods is afraid of death; 
he that fears the gods can fear nothing else." 

He advanced hastily towards the Daunians as he spoke, 
and made a sign to his people, that were on the other side of 
the tree where Adrastus had taken refuge, to cut of his re- 
treat. The tyrant, perceiving his situation, would have made a 
desperate effort to force his way through the Cretans; but 
Telemachus rushing upon him, sudden and irresistible as the 
bolt which the father of the gods launches from the summit of 
Olympus to destroy the guilty, seized him with his victorious 
hand and laid him prostrate in the dust, as the northern tem- 
pest levels the harvest not yet ripe for the sickle. The victor 
was then deaf to entreaty, though the perfidious tyrant again 
attempted to abuse the goodness of his heart : he plunged the 
sword in his breast, and dismissed his soul to the flames of 
Tartarus, the just punishment of his crimes. 



494 WORKS OF FENELON. 

As soon as Adrastus was dead, the Davmians, instead of de- 
ploring their defeat and the loss of their chief, rejoiced in 
their deliverance, and gave their hands to the allies in token 
of peace and reconciliation. Metrodorus, the son of Adrastus, 
whom the tyrant had brought up in the principles of dissimu- 
lation, injustice, and cruelty, pusillanimously fled. But a slave 
who had been the confidant and companion of his vices, whom 
he had enfranchised and loaded with benefits, and to whom 
alone he trusted in his flight, thought only how he might im- 
prove the opportunity to his own advantage: he therefore 
attacked him behind as he fled, and having cut off his head, 
brought it into the camp of the allies, hoping to receive a 
great reward for a crime which would put an end to the war. 
The allies, however, were struck with horror at the act, and 
put the traitor to death. Telemachus, when he saw the head 
of Metrodorus, a youth of great beauty and excellent endow- 
ments, whom the love of pleasure and bad example had cor- 
rupted, could not refrain from tears. " Behold," said he, " what 
the poison of prosperity can effect for a young prince ! The 
greater his elevation, and the keener his sensibility, the more 
easy and the more certain is his seduction from virtue. And 
what has now happened to Metrodorus, might perhaps have 
happened to me, if I had not been favored by the gods with 
early misfortune and the counsels of Mentor." 

The Daunians being assembled, required, as the only con- 
dition of peace, that they should be permitted to choose a king 
of their own nation, whose virtues might remove the disgrace 
which Adrastus had brought upon royalty. They were thank- 
ful to the gods who had cut him off; they came in crowds to 
kiss the hand of Telemachus as the instrument of divine jus- 
tice, and they celebrated their defeat as a triumph. Thus the 
power which threatened all Hesperia, and struck united nations 
with terror, fell in a moment, totally and forever. So the 
ground that is gradually undermined in appearance maintains 
its stability : the slow progress of the work below is disregarded 
or despised ; nothing shakes, nothing is broken, and, in appear- 
ance, nothing is weak ; yet the secret support is certainly, though 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XV. 495 

insensibly destroyed, and the moment at last arrives when the 
whole falls at once into ruin, and nothing remains but an abyss 
in which the surface, and all that covered it, is swallowed up. 
Thus an unjust power, an illegal authority, however founded, 
is gradually subverted by fraud and cruelty : whatever degree 
of prosperity it may reach through fraud, it gradually under- 
mines itself. It is gazed at with admiration and terror, and 
every one trembles before it, till the moment when it sinks 
into nothing ; it falls by its own weight, and it can rise no 
more, for its support is not only removed, but annihilated — 
justice and integrity are wanting, which alone can produce 
confidence and love. 



BOOK XVI. 

The chiefs assemble to deliberate upon the demand of the Daunians, that 
one of their own nation may be given them for a king. Nestor, being 
inconsolable for the loss of his son, absents himself from the assembly 
of the chiefs, where some are of opinion that the conquered lands should 
be divided among them, and allot the territory of Arpi to Telemachus. 
Telcmaehus rejects this otfer, and convinces the chiefs that it is their 
common interest to appoint Polydamas king of the Daiuiians, and leave 
them in possession of their country. He afterwards persuades the 
DauuiaiiK to bestow Arpi upon Diomedes, who had accidentally landed 
upon their coast. Hostilities being now at an end, the allies separate, 
and every one returns to his country. 

On the next day the chiefs of the army assembled to give 
the Daunians a king. They saw the two camps intermingled 
by an amity so sudden and unexpected, and the two armies, as 
it were, incorporated into one, with infinite pleasure. Nestor, 
indeed, could not be present, for the death of his son was 
more than the weakness of age could support. He sunk 
under his misfortunes, in the decline of life, as under the 
showers of the evening sinks a flower, which was the glory of 
the verdant field, when Aurora first gave the day. His eyes 
continually overflowed from an inexhaustible source ; the le- 
nient hand of sleep closed them no more, and the soothing 
prospects of hope, in which misery itself can rejoice, were cut 
off. All food was bitter to his taste, and light was painful to 
his eye; he had no wish but to be dismissed from life, and 
covered with the veil of eternal darkness. The voice of friend- 
ship soothed and expostulated with him in vain; for even 
kindness itself disgusted him, as the richest dainties are dis- 
gustful to the sick. To soft condolence and tender expostula- 
tion, he answered only with groans and sighs. He was some- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVI. 497 

times heard to break out into such passionate exclamations as 
these : " Pisistratus ! O my son ! thou callest me, and I will 
follow thee ! thou hast made death welcome, and I have no 
wish but once more to behold thee upon the borders of the 
St}'x !" After such bursts of grief he would pass whole hours 
in silence, except that, lifting up his eyes to heaven, groans 
would involuntarily escape him. 

In the mean time, the princes that were assembled waited 
patiently for Telemachus, who still continued near the body of 
Pisistratus, burning the richest perfumes, scattering flowers 
over it in handfuls, 1 and shedding bitter tears. " my dear 
companion," said he, "can our first meeting at Pylos, our jour- 
ney to Sparta, and our meeting on the coast of Hesperia' be 
forgotten ? How many obligations am I under to thee ! how 
tenderly did I love thee! and how faithfully was my love 
returned! I knew thy vaior; it would have rivalled the 
greatest heroes of Greece ; but, alas ! it has destroyed thee. 
It has indeed consecrated thy name, but it has impoverished 
»the world. We have lost the virtues that would have been 
[equal to those of thy father, — another Nestor, whose wisdom 
j and eloquence would in future times have been the pride and 
, admiration of Greece. That soft persuasion was already upon 
; thy lips, which, when Nestor speaks, is irresistible ; that native 
• simplicity and truth, that gentle expostulation which soothes 
.anger into peace, and that authority which equanimity and 
| wisdom necessarily acquire, were already thy own. To thy 
j voice ever) 7 ear was attentive, and every heart was inclined to 
. approve thy judgment. Thy words, plain and artless, distilled 
-upon the heart as the dews of heaven distil upon the rising 
herbage of the field. In thee, how many blessings within a 
/few hours did we possess ! with thee, how many blessings have 
; we now lost forever ! Pisistratus, whom but yesterday I 
J clasped to my breast, is now insensible to my friendship, and a 
i mournful remembrance of him is all that remains. If, instead 
of our closing thy eyes, thou hadst closed the eyes of Nestor, 



» u Give me lilies in hanlfuls."— ^Zneid, vi. 



498 WORKS OF FENELON. 

the gods would have spared him this sight of anguish and 
horror, and he would not have been distinguished among 
fathers by unexampled calamity." 

After these exclamations of tenderness and pity, Telemachus 
ordered the blood to be washed from the wounded side of 
Pisistratus, and the body to be laid upon a purple bier. Upon 
this bed of death, his head reclined and his countenance pale, 
he resembled a young tree, which, having covered the earth 
with its shade, and shot up its branches to heaven, is cut down 
by the axe with an untimely stroke ; it is severed at once from 
its root, and from the earth, a prolific mother, that cherishes 
her offspring in her bosom. The branches languish, and the 
verdure fades ; it is no longer self-supported ; it falls to the 
ground, and its spreading honors, that concealed the sky, are 
stretched, withered and sapless, to the dust ; it is no more a 
tree, but a lifeless trunk ; it aspires and is graceful no more. 
Thus, fallen, and thus changed, Pisistratus was now borne to 
the funeral pile, attended by a band of Pylians, moving with 
a slow and mournful pace ; their arms reversed, and their eyes, 
swimming in tears, fixed upon the ground. And now the 
flame ascends in ruddy spires to the sky : the body is quickly 
consumed, and the ashes deposited in a golden urn. This urn, 
as an invaluable treasure, Telemachus, who superintended the 
whole, confided to Callimachus, to whom Nestor had once 
confided the son whose remains it contained. " Preserve," 
said he, " these mournful but precious relics of one whom you 
tenderly loved ; preserve them for his father, but do not give 
them till he has fortitude enough to ask for them. That 
which at one time sharpens sorrow will soothe it at another." 

Telemachus, having thus fulfilled the last duties to his friend, 
repaired to the assembly of the confederate princes, who, the 
moment they saw him, became silent with attention : he 
blushed at the deference that was paid him, and. could not be 
prevailed upon to speak. The acclamations that followed in- 
creased his confusion ; he wished to hide himself, and now for 
the first time appeared to be irresolute and disconcerted. At 
last he entreated as a favor that they would praise him no 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVI. 499 

more : " Not," lie said, " because it displeases me, especially 
from those who are so well able to distinguish virtue, but 
because I am afraid it should please me too much. Praise is 
the great corrupter of men; it renders them arrogant, pre- 
sumptuous, and vain ; it ought alike to be deserved and avoid- 
ed. Nothing is so like honest praise as flattery. Tyrants, the 
most wicked of all men, are the objects of greatest adulation. 
What pleasure can I derive from such tribute ? Honest praise, 
if I am so happy as to deserve it, will be well paid when I 
am absent. If you believe that I have merit, you must also 
believe that I desire to be humble, and am afraid of being 
vain. Spare me, then, if you esteem me ; and do not praise 
me as if you thought praise was delightful to my ear." 

Telemachus, having thus expressed the sentiments of his 

heart, took no further notice of those who still continued loud 

in extravagant encomiums, and his neglect soon put them to 

silence. They began to fear that their zeal would displease 

him : praise, therefore, was at an end, but admiration increased. 

The tenderness which he had shown to Pisistratus, and the 

affectionate assiduity with which he had paid the last duties of 

a friend, were known by all. The whole army was more 

touched with these testimonies of sensibility and benevolence, 

i than with all the prodigies of wisdom and valor that had dis- 

■ tinguished his character with unrivalled lustre. " He is wise," 

said they to each other, " and he is brave ; he is beloved of 

. the gods ; he stands alone, the hero of our age ; he is more 

than man ; but this is only wonderful, this excites no passion 

but astonishment. He is, besides, humane ; he is good ; he is 

a faithful and a tender friend ; he is compassionate, liberal, 

beneficent, and devoted without reserve, to those who merit 

his affection. Of his haughtiness, indifference, and ferocity, 

nothing remains. His character is now distinguished by use- 

llfol and endearing excellence ; by qualities that reach the heart, 

ithat melt us with tenderness, that make us not only acknowl- 

J edge but feel his virtues, and would prompt us to redeem his 

i life with our own." 

i The princes, having thus given vent to their esteem and 



500 WORKS OF FENELON. 

admiration, proceeded to debate the necessity of giving the 
Daunians a king. The greater part of the assembly was of 
opinion that the territories of Adrastus should be divided 
among them as a conquered country. Telemachus was offered, 
as his share, the fertile country of Arpi, where Ceres pours out 
her golden treasures, Bacchus presents his delicious fruit, and 
the olive, consecrated to Minerva, pays her green tribute twice 
a year. " This country," said they, " ought to obliterate Ithaca 
from your remembrance, its barren soil, its mean cottages, the 
dreary rocks of Dulichium, and the savage forests of Zacynthus. 
Think no more of your father, who has certainly been buried 
in the deep at the promontory of Caphareus, by the vengeance 
of Nauplius and the anger of Neptune ; nor of your mother, 
* who must have yielded to her suitors in your absence ; nor of 
your country, which the gods have not favored like that which 
is now offered to you." 

Telemachus heard them patiently, but the rocks of Thessaly 
and Thrace are not more deaf and inexorable to the complaints 
of despairing love, than the son of Ulysses to these offers. " 1 
have no wish," said he, " either for luxury or wealth ; and why 
should I possess a wider extent of country, or command a 
greater number of men ? I should only be more embarrassed, 
and less at liberty. Men of the greatest wisdom and most 
moderate desires have found life full of trouble, without tak- 
ing upon them the government of others, who are restless and 
untractable, injurious, fraudulent, and ungrateful. He that 
desires to command others for his own sake, without any view 
but to his own power and pleasure and glory, is a tyrant, an 
enemy to the gods, and a punishment to men. He who, on 
the contrary, governs men with justice and equity, for their 
own advantage, is rather their guardian than their lord ; his 
trouble is inconceivable, and he is far from wishing to increase 
it by extending his authority. The shepherd, who does not 
riot upon the flesh of his flock, who defends it from the wolf 
at the hazard of his life, who leads it to the best pasture, and 
watches over it night and day, has no desire to increase the 
number of his sheep, or to seize upon those of his neighbor ; 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XYI. 501 

for this would only increase his care, by multiplying its objects. 
Though I have never governed, I have learned from the laws, 
and from the sages by whom laws have been made, that gov- 
ernment is an anxious and laborious task. I am, therefore, 
content with Ithaca, however small, and however poor. If I 
can reign there, with fortitude, justice, and piety, I shall have 
no need to wish for a larger dominion to increase my glory. 
My reign, indeed, may commence but too soon. Heaven 
grant that my father, escaping the fury of the waves, may 
reign himself to the longest period of human life ; and that, 
under him, I may learn to subdue my own passions, till I 
know how to restrain those of a whole nation." 

Telemachus then addressed the assembly in these terms : 
u Hear, O ye princes, what your interest makes it my duty to 
declare. If you give the Daunians a just king, he will make 
them a just people ; he will show them the advantage of keep- 
ing their faith unbroken, and of not invading the territories of 
their neighbors — a lesson which, under the impious Adrastus, 
they could never learn. From these people, while they are 
under the direction of a wise and good prince, you will have 
nothing to fear : if you shall give them such a prince, they 
will be indebted for him to you ; they will be indebted to you 
for the peace and prosperity they will enjoy under him : in- 
stead of attacking, they will bless you; both king and people 
will be, as it were, the work of your own hands. But, on the 
contrary, if you divide their country among you, the mischiefs 
. I now predict will certainly come to pass : the Daunians, 
pushed to desperation, will renew the war ; they will fight in 
a just cause, the cause of liberty ; and the gods, who abhor 
tyranny, will fight for them. If the gods take part against 
you, first or last you must be confounded, and your prosperity 
will be dispelled like a vapor ; counsel and wisdom will be with- 
drawn from your chiefs, courage from your armies, and plenty 
from your country. Your hope will be presumptuous, and 
your undertakings rash ; you will impose silence upon those 
that warn you of your danger ; your ruin will be sudden and 
irretrievable, and it will then be said : ' Is this the mighty na- 



502 WOKKS OF FENELON. 

tion that was to give laws to the world ? this, that is now van- 
quished, pursued, and trampled in the dust? Such is the 
desert of the lawless, the haughty, and the cruel ; and such is 
the righteous retribution of heaven.' Consider, also, that if 
you undertake to divide your conquest, you will unite all the 
surrounding nations against you : your alliance, which was 
formed in defence of the common liberty of Hesperia against 
the usurpations of Adrastus, will become odious; and you 
will yourselves be justly accused of aspiring at a universal 
tyranny." 

But suppose that you should be victorious against the Dau- 
nians and every other people, your success will inevitably be 
your ruin. This measure will disunite you : it cannot be 
taken without a violation of those very rules by which alone 
you can regulate your own pretensions; it will substitute 
power for justice, and therefore each of you will make his 
power the measure of his claim. Not one of you will have 
sufficient authority over the rest to make a peaceable division 
of the common property ; and thus a new war will commence, 
of which your descendants, that are not yet born, will proba- 
bly never see the end. Is it not better to sit down in peace, 
with justice and moderation, than to follow ambition, where 
all is tumult, danger, and calamity ? Is not perfect tranquil- 
lity and blameless pleasure, a plentiful country and friendly 
neighbors, the glory that is inseparable from justice, and the 
authority that must result from an integrity, to which foreign 
nations refer their contests for decision, more desirable than 
the idle vanity of lawless conquest ? I speak, princes, with- 
out interest ; I oppose your opinions because I love you ; I tell 
you the truth, though I risk your displeasure." 

While Telemachus was thus speaking, with a new and irre- 
sistible authority, and the princes were admiring the wisdom 
of his counsels in astonishment and suspense, a confused noise 
spread through the camp, and came at last to the place where 
they were assembled. It was said that a stranger had just 
landed, with a company of men in arms ; that he was of a 
lofty bearing ; that every thing about him was heroic ; that 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVI. 503 

he appeared to have endured great adversity, and to be supe- 
rior to all suffering. The soldiers, who were stationed to 
guard the coast, at first prepared to repulse him as an enemy 
that was invading their country; upon which he drew his 
sword with an air of intrepidity, and declared that, if he was 
attacked, he could make good his defence; but that he re- 
quired only peace and hospitality. He then held out an olive- 
branch as a suppliant ; and, desiring to be conducted to those 
who commanded that part of the coast, he was accordingly 
brought to the royal assembly. 

The moment after this intelligence was received, the stran- 
ger entered. His majestic appearance struck the whole assem- 
bly with surprise. He looked like the god of war, when he 
calls together his sanguinary bands upon the mountains of 
Thrace ; and he addressed the princes thus : 

" Surely I see the guardians of nations assembled to defend 
their country, or distribute justice. Here, then, a man, per- 
secuted by fortune, may hope to be heard. May the gods 
preserve you from the like calamities ! I am Diomedes, the 
king of iEtolia, who wounded Venus at the siege of Troy. 
Her vengeance pursues me whithersoever I fly. Neptune, who 
can refuse nothing to the divine daughter of the sea, has given 
me up to the fury of the winds and waves ; and often have my 
ships been broken upon the rocks. Inexorable Venus has left 
me no hope of again returning to my kingdom, or clasping my 
family to my breast. In the country where I first beheld the 
light, I shall behold it no more. From all that is dear to me 
I am severed forever. Upon this unknown coast, after nl\ my 
shipwrecks, I seek only security and rest. Jupiter himself is 
the stranger's titulary god ; if, therefore, you have any rever- 
ence for heaven, if you have any feelings of compassion, vouch- 
safe me some neglected corner of this vast country, some bar- 
ren spot, some untrodden waste, some sandy plain, some craggy 
rock, where I may take refuge with ray associates in misfor- 
tune, and build a little town, a sad memorial of the country 
we have lost. We ask but a small tract of such ground as is 
useless to you. We will be peaceful neighbors, and firm allies ; 



504: WORKS OF FENELON. 

we will have no enemy, and no interest, but yours ; and 
we desire only the liberty of living according to our own 
laws." 

While Diomedes was speaking, Telemachus kept his eyes 
fixed upon him, and all the changes of passion were by turns 
expressed in his face. When the hero at first mentioned his 
long misfortunes, he thought this majestic stranger might be 
his father, and his countenance brightened with hope. The 
moment he declared himself to be Diomedes, hope faded like 
a flower at the chill blast of the north. When he complained 
of inexorable anger and an offended goddess, the heart of Te- 
lemachus was melted by the remembrance of what his father 
and himself had suffered from the same cause; the conflict 
was, at last, more than he could sustain : bursting into tears of 
grief and joy, he threw himself upon the neck of Diomedes, 
and embraced him. 

" I am," said he, " the son of Ulysses, your associate in the 
war, who, when you carried off the horses of Rhesus, was not 
idle. The gods have treated him with unrelenting severity, as 
they have treated you. If the oracles of Erebus may be be- 
lieved, he is still alive ; but, alas ! he is not alive to me. I 
have left Ithaca to seek him, and I have now lost him and my 
country forever. Judge from my misfortunes of my compas- 
sion for yours ; for misfortune is the parent of pity, and so far 
it is an advantage. In this country I am but a stranger my- 
self, and I have from my infancy suffered various distress in my 
own. Yet, mighty Diomedes, I was not there ignorant of 
the glory you have acquired, nor am I here unable, next to 
Achilles in courage and prowess ! to procure you some succor. 
The princes whom you see in this assembly are not strangers 
to humanity ; they are sensible that without it there is neither 
virtue, nor courage, nor honor. The truly great become more 
illustrious by adversity ; without adversity, something is want- 
ing in their character, and they cannot be examples either of 
patience or of fortitude. When virtue suffers, every heart is 
melted that is not insensible to virtue. Intrust then your af- 
fairs implicitly with us, to whom the gods have given you ; 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XYI. 505 

we receive you as a bounty from their hands, and shall think 
ourselves happy in the power of alleviating your distress." 

Dioniedes, astonished at what he heard, fixed his eyes upon 
Telemachus, and felt himself moved to the heart. They em- 
braced as if they had been long united by the most intimate 
friendship. "0 son of the wise Ulysses," said he, "how 
worthy art thou of such a father ! Thou hast the same sweet- 
ness of countenance, the same grace of discourse, the same 
force of eloquence, the same elevation of sentiment, and the 
same rectitude of thought." 

The hero was also embraced by Philoctetes, and they re- 
lated their unfortunate adventures to each other. " You would, 
certainly," said Philoctetes, " be glad once more to see Nestor. 
He has just lost his last surviving child, Pisistratus ; and to 
him this world is now only a vale of tears, leading to the 
grave. Come with me and comfort him : an unfortunate friend 
is more likely than any other to soothe his distress." They 
went immediately to his tent, but grief had so much affected 
both his senses and his understanding, that he recollected 
Diomedes with difficulty. Dioniedes at first wept with him, 
and the old man felt his grief increased by the interview. The 
presence of his friend, however, soothed his anguish by de- 
grees, and it was easy to perceive that the sense of his mis- 
fortunes was, in some degree, suspended by the pleasure of 
relating them, and of hearing what had befallen Diomedes in 
return. 

In the mean time the assembled princes consulted with 
Telemachus what was proper to be done. Telemachus ad- 
vised them to bestow the country of Arpi upon Diomedes, and 
to give Polydamas to the Daunians for their king. Polydamas 
was their countryman, a soldier of whose eminent abilities 
Adrastus was jealous, and whom, therefore, he would never 
employ, lest he should share the glory of success, which he 
wished to secure to himself. Polydamas had often told him 
in private, that in a war against united nations, his life and 
the public welfare were too much exposed, and would have 
persuaded him to treat the neighboring States with more jus- 
22 



506 WORKS OF FENELON. 

tice and equity. But men who hate truth, hate those also 
who are bold enough to speak it ; they are not touched either 
with their sincerity, their zeal, or their disinterestedness. A 
deluded prosperity hardened the heart of Adrastus against the 
counsels of virtue, and the neglect of them afforded him every 
day a new triumph, for fraud and violence gave him the ad- 
vantage over all his enemies. The misfortunes which Poly- 
damas predicted did not happen. Adrastus despised the timid 
prudence which foresaw nothing but difficulty and danger ; 
Polydamas became at length insupportable; he was dismissed 
from all his employments, and lett to languish in solitude and 
poverty. 

Polydamas was at first overwhelmed with this reverse of 
fortune ; but at length it supplied what was wanting in his 
character, — a sense of the vanity of external greatness. He 
became wise at his own expense, and rejoiced that he had felt 
adversity ; he learnt by degrees not to repine, to live upon 
little, to nourish himself with tranquillity upon truth, to culti- 
vate the virtues of private life, which are infinitely more esti- 
mable than those that glitter in the public eye ; finally, not to 
depend for his enjoyments upon men. He dwelt in a desert 
at the foot of Mount Garganus, where a rock that formed a 
kind of rude vault sheltered him from the weather. A brook 
that fell from the mountain quenched his thirst, and the fruit 
of some neighboring trees allayed his hunger. He had two 
slaves whom he employed to cultivate a small spot of ground, 
and he assisted them in their work with his own hands. The 
soil repaid his labor with usury, and he was«in want of noth- 
ing. He had not only fruit, herbs, and roots in abundance, 
but fragrant flowers of every kind. In this retirement he de- 
plored the misfortune of those nations which the mad ambi- 
tion of a prince pushes on to their ruin. He expected every 
day that the gods, who, though long-suffering, are just, would 
put an end to the tyranny of Adrastus. He thought he per- 
ceived that the more the tyrant rose in prosperity, the nearer 
he approached to destruction; for successful imprudence, and 
absolute authority in its utmost stretch, are to kings and king- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVI. 507 

doms the certain forerunners of a fall. Yet when he heard of 
the defeat and death of Adrastus, he expressed no joy, either 
in having foreseen his ruin, or in being delivered from his 
tyranny ; he was anxious only for his country, which he feared 
the conquerors might reduce to a state of slavery. 

Such was the man whom Telemachus proposed to give the 
Daunians for their king. He had been some time acquainted 
both with his courage and his virtue ; for Telemachus, as he had 
been advised by Mentor, applied himself with incessant dili- 
gence to discover the. good and bad qualities of all persons 
who had any considerable trust, whether under the allied 
princes with whom he served in the war, or among their ene- 
mies. It was one of his principal employments, in every place, 
to discover and examine men who were distinguished by some 
singular talent or qualification, wherever they were to be 
found. 

The confederated princes were at first unwilling to bestow 
the kingdom upon Polydamas. " We have learned," said they, 
" by fatal experience, that a king of the Daunians, who has a 
military disposition and military skill, must be extremely for- 
midable to his neighbors. Polydamas is a great commander, 
and he may bring Ua into great danger." " It is true," replied 
Telemachus, " that Polydamas is acquainted with war ; but it 
is also true that he is a lover of peace ; these two things to- 
gether make the very character that our interest requires. A 
man who has experienced the difficulties, the dangers, and the 
calamities of war, is much better qualified to avoid them than 
he that knows them only by report. Polydamas has learned 
to relish and to value the blessings of tranquillity ; he always 
condemned the enterprises of Adrastus, and foresaw the ruin 
in wdiich they would terminate. You will have much more to 
fear from a weak prince, without knowledge and without ex- 
: perience, than from one who sees all with his own eye, and 
1 determines all by his own will. The weak and ignorant prince 
will see all things with the eyes of another — either of some 
: capricious favorite, or of some flattering, turbulent, and ambi- 
i tious minister ; he will therefore be engaged in a war without 



508 WOKKS OF FENELON. 

intending it. You can certainly have no dependence upon 
him who acts implicitly by the direction of others ; there can 
be no hope that his promises will be kept ; and you will, in a 
short time, have no alternative but to destroy him, or to suffer 
yourselves to be destroyed by him. Is it not, therefore, more 
advantageous, more safe, and at the same time more just and 
more generous, faithfully to fulfil the trust which the Daunians 
have placed in you, and give them a king that is worthy of 
dominion ?" 

All scruples being entirely removed by this discourse, Poly- 
damas was immediately proposed to the Daunians, who waited 
the determination of the assembly with impatience. As soon 
as they heard the name of Polydamas, they answered : " The 
allies have now proved the sincerity of their intentions, and 
given us a pledge of perpetual peace, by proposing a man of 
such virtue and abilities for our king. If they had proposed 
a man without spirit, without virtue, without knowledge, we 
should have concluded that they designed only to make us 
weak and contemptible, by rendering our government corrupt — 
a cruel subtlety, which we could not have seen practised 
against us without a secret but strong resentment. The choice 
of Polydamas, indeed, is a proof of candor. As the allies 
have given us a king who is incapable of doing any thing in- 
consistent with the liberty and honor of our State, it is mani- 
fest that they expect nothing which can either degrade or 
oppress us ; and on our part, we call the gods to witness, that 
if the rivers return not back to their sources, we will not cease 
to love those who have treated us with so noble a beneficence. 
May our latest posterity remember the benefits which have this 
day been conferred upon us, and renew, from generation to 
generation, the peace of the golden age of Hesperia till time 
shall be no more !" 

Telemachus then proposed to the Daunians, that the plains 
of Arpi should be given to Diomedes for the settlement of a 
colony. " You will lay this new people," said he, " under an 
obligation without expense. You do not occupy the country 
in which they will settle, yet they will be indebted for their 



TELEMACHTTS. BOOK XVI. 509 

settlement there to you. Remember that all men should be 
united by the bonds of love ; that the earth is of an extent 
much larger than they can fill ; that it is necessary to have 
neighbors ; and eligible to have such neighbors as are obliged 
to you for their settlement. Nor should you be insensible to 
the misfortunes of a prince to whom his native country is in- 
terdicted forever. A union between him and Polydamas will 
be immediately formed upon mutual principles of rectitude 
and benevolence, the only principles upon which any union 
can be lasting ; you will therefore secure all the blessings of 
peace to yourselves, and become so formidable to all the 
neighboring States, that none of them will attempt the acqui- 
sition of a greatness and power that would be dangerous to 
the rest. As we have given to your country and people a 
king that will procure to both the highest degree of prosperity 
and honor, let your liberality, at our request, bestow a country 
that you do not cultivate upon a king who has an indubitable 
claim to your assistance." 

The Daunians answered that they could refuse nothing to 
Telemachus, who had given them Polydamas for a king, and 
they went immediately to seek him in his desert, that they 
might place him upon the throne. First, however, they grant- 
ed the fertile plains of Arpi to Diomedes, for a new kingdom. 
Their bounty to him was extremely pleasing to the allies; 
because this colony of Greeks would powerfully assist them to 
repel the Daunians, in any future attempt to make encroach- 
ments upon the neighboring States, of which Adrastus had 
given them so pernicious an example. 

All the purposes of the alliance being now accomplished, 
the princes drew off their forces in separate bodies. Telema- 
chus departed with his Cretans, having first tenderly embraced 
his noble friend Diomedes ; then Nestor, still inconsolable for 
the loss of his son ; and last Philoctetes, who possessed and 
deserved the arrows of Hercules. 



BOOK XVII. 

Telemachus, on his return to Salentnm, is surprised to see the country so 
well cultivated, and to find so little appearance of magnificence in the 
city. Mentor accounts for these alterations, and points out the principal 
causes that prevent national prosperity. He proposes the conduct and 
government of ldorneneus as a model. Telemachus discovers to Men- 
tor his desire to marry the daughter ^f ldorneneus, Antiope. Mentor 
approves of the choice, and assures him that she is designed for him by 
the gods ; but that at present he should think only of returning to 
Ithaca, and delivering Penelope from her suitors. ldorneneus, fearing 
the departure of his guests, proposes several embarrassing affairs to 
Mentor, and assures him that without his assistance they cannot be ad- 
justed. Mentor lays down general principles for his conduct, but con- 
tinues steady in Ids purpose of departing with Telemachus for Ithaca, 
ldorneneus tries another expedient to detain them: he encourages the 
passion of Telemachus for Antiope, and engages him and Mentor in a 
hunting party with his daughter. She is in the utmost danger from a 
wild boar, but is delivered by Telemachus. He feels great reluctance to 
leave her, and has not fortitude to bid ldorneneus farewell. Being en- 
couraged by Mentor, he surmounts his difficulties, and embarks for his 
country. 

Telemachus was now impatient to rejoin Mentor at Salen- 
tnm, and to embark with him for Ithaca, where he hoped his 
father would arrive before him. As he approached the city, he 
was astonished to see that the neighboring country, which he 
had left almost a desert, was now in the highest state of culti- 
vation, and swarmed like a hive with the children of industry 
and labor : this change he imputed to the wisdom of Mentor. 
But when he entered the city, and perceived that its appear- 
ance was much less magnificent, and that fewer hands were 
employed to furnish the luxuries of life, he was displeased, for 
he was naturally fond of elegance and splendor. His displeas- 
ure, however, soon gave way to other sentiments : he saw 
ldorneneus and Mentor at a distance coming to meet him. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 511 

His heart instantly overflowed with tenderness and joy. It was 
not, however, without some mixture of anxiety ; for, notwith- 
standing his success in the expedition against Adrastus, he 
doubted whether his conduct, upon the whole, would be ap- 
proved by Mentor, and endeavored to read his sentiments in 
his eyes as he approached. 

Idoineneus embraced Telemachus with the affection of a 
parent, and Telemachus, as soon as he was disengaged, threw 
himself upon the neck of Mentor, and burst into tears. " I am 
satisfied," said Mentor : " you have indeed committed great 
faults, but they have acquainted you with your infirmities, and 
warned you of self-confidence. More advantage is sometimes 
derived from disappointment than from success. Great achieve 
ments frequently produce contemptible vain-glory, and danger 
ous presumption ; but disappointments from ill-conduct make 
the man a censor of himself, and restore the wisdom which 
success had taken away. You are not to seek praise from 
men, but to offer it with humility to the gods. You have 
indeed performed noble exploits, but you must confess that you 
were rather the instrument than the agent : were they not 
effected by powers communicated from without ? and were 
they not frequently endangered by your precipitation and im- 
prudence ? Are you not conscious that Minerva exalted you 
into a nature superior to your own, and that, only after this 
transformation, you became equal to the achievements that 
you performed ? Minerva suspended your passions, as Neptune 
suspends the swelling waves, when he commands the tempest 
to be still." 

While Idomeneus was gratifying his curiosity by making 
various inquiries of the Cretans that had returned from the 
war, Telemachus was listening to the wisdom of Mentor. At 
length, looking around him with astonishment, he said : " I see 
many alterations here, of which I cannot comprehend the 
cause : has any misfortune happened to Salentum in my 
absence ? The magnificence and splendor in which I left it 
have disappeared. I see neither silver, nor gold, nor jewels ; 
I the habits of the people are plain, the buildings are smaller 



512 WORKS OF FENELON. 

and more simple, the arts languish, and the city has become a 
desert." 

" Have you observed," replied Mentor with a smile, " the 
state of the country that lies around it ?" " Yes," said Telem- 
achus, " I perceive that agriculture has become an honorable 
profession, and that there is not a field uncultivated." " And 
which is best," replied Mentor, " a superb city abounding with 
marble, and silver, and gold, with a sterile and neglected coun- 
try ; or a country in a state of high cultivation and fruitful 
as a garden, with a city where sobriety of manners has taken 
the place of pomp ? A great city, full of artificers, who are 
employed only to effeminate the manners, by furnishing the 
superfluities of luxury, surrounded by a poor and uncultivated 
country, resembles a monster with a head of enormous size, and 
a withered, enervated body, without beauty, vigor, or propor- 
tion. The genuine strength and true riches of a kingdom con- 
sist in the number of people, and the plenty of provisions. 
An innumerable people now cover the whole territory of Idom- 
eneus, which they cultivate with unwearied diligence and 
assiduity. His dominions may be considered as one town, of 
which Salentum is the centre. The people that were wanting 
in the fields, and superfluous in the city, we have removed 
from the city to the fields. We have also brought in many 
foreigners. As the produce of the earth will always be in 
proportion to the number of persons that till it, this quiet and 
peaceable multitude is a much more valuable acquisition than 
a new conquest. We have expelled those arts which divert 
the poor from procuring by agriculture the necessaries of life, 
and corrupt the wealthy, by giving them the superfluities of 
luxury and pride ; but we have done no injury to the fine arts, 
nor to those who have a true genius for their cultivation. 
Idomeneus has thus become much more powerful than he was 
when you admired his magnificence. This false splendor, by 
dazzling the eye, concealed such weakness and misery as would 
in a short time have subverted his empire. He has now a 
much greater number of subjects, and he subsists them with 
greater facility. These people, inured to labor and hardship, 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XVII. 513 

and set above a fond and effeminate attachment to life, by the 
wise institutions of the government under which they live, 
are always ready to take the field in defence of the country 
which they have cultivated with their own hands ; and the 
State which you think is in decay, will shortly be the wonder 
of Hesperia. 

'* Remember, my son, that there are, two evils in govern- 
ment which admit of no remedy, — an inequitable and despotic 
power in the prince, and a luxurious depravity of manners in 
the people. 

" Princes that have been accustomed to consider their will 
only as law, and to give the reins to their passions, may do 
any thing ; but their power of doing any thing is necessarily 
subverted by its own excess ; their government is capriciously 
administered without maxim or principle ; they are universally 
feared and flattered ; their subjects degenerate into slaves ; 
and of these slaves the number is perpetually diminishing. 
Who shall dare to affront them with truth ? Who shall stem 
the torrent of destruction ? It swells over all bounds ; the 
wise fly before it, and sigh in secret over the ruins of their 
country. Some sudden and violent revolution only can re 
duce this enormous power within proper bounds ; and by that 
which alone can restrain it, it is frequently destroyed. Noth- 
ing is so certain a presage of irremediable destruction, as 
authority pushed to excess ; it is like a bow that is over-bent, 
which, if not relaxed, will suddenly break ;, and who shall 
venture to relax it ? This excessive, this fatal but flattering 
power, has been once the ruin of Idomeneus ; he was de- 
throned but not undeceived. Of this power, which, as it is 
not intended for mankind, can be assumed only to their ruin, 
he would still have been the dupe, if the gods had not sent us 
hither for his deliverance ; and, after all, events scarcely less 
than miracles have been necessary to open his eyes. 

" The other almost incurable evil is luxury. As the prince 
is corrupted by an excess of power, the people are corrupted 
by luxury. It has been said, indeed, that luxury feeds the 
poor at the expense of the rich ; but certainly the poor may 

22* 



514 WORKS OF FENELON. 

be subsisted by useful employments ; if they apply themselves 
to multiply the products of the earth, they will be under no 
necessity to corrupt the rich by the refinements of luxury. A 
deviation from the simplicity of nature is sometimes so general, 
that a whole nation considers the most trifling superfluities as 
the necessaries of life; these factitious necessaries multiply 
every day, and people can no longer subsist without things 
which thirty years before had never been in existence. This 
luxury is called taste, perfection of the arts, and refinement of 
the nation. This vice, which superinduces almost every other, 
is cultivated and commended as a virtue. Its contagion 
spreads from the prince to the meanest of his people. The 
royal family imitate the magnificence of the king ; the nobles, 
that of the royal family ; the middle class, that of the nobles ; 
and the poor — for who makes a just estimate of himself? — 
would intrude upon the class above them. All live above 
their condition ; some from ostentation, and to glory in their 
wealth ; some from a false shame, and to conceal their poverty. 
Even those who discover the mischief of this general folly, 
want fortitude to set the examples of reformation. All con- 
ditions are confounded, and the nation is undone. A desire of 
gain to support this idle expense, taints by degrees the purest 
minds ; wealth is the only object of desire, and poverty the 
only mark of disgrace. You may have learning, talents, and 
virtue ; you may diffuse knowledge, you may win battles, save 
your country, and sacrifice your interest ; and after all, if your 
merit is not set off by the glitter of fashionable expense, you 
will sink into obscurity and contempt. Even those who are 
without money, will not appear to want it ; they live at the 
same expense as if they had it ; they borrow, they cheat, and 
practise a thousand scandalous expedients to procure it. But 
who shall apply a remedy to these evils ? New laws must be 
instituted, and the taste and habit of the whole nation must 
be changed. Who is equal to such an undertaking, but he 
who is at once a philosopher and a prince ; who, by the ex- 
ample of his own moderation, can shame those that are 
fond of ostentation and parade, and keep the wise in counte- 






TELEMAOHUS. BOOK XVII. 515 

nance, who would rejoice to be encouraged in an honest fru- 
gality?" 

Telemachus, while he listened to this discourse, perceived 
the delusions of his mind to vanish, like a man that wakes 
from a dream. He was now conscious of truth, and his heart 
was transformed to its image, as marble to the idea of the 
sculptor, when he gives it the features, the attitude, and the 
softness of life. At first he made no reply ; but while he recol- 
lected what he had heard, he attentively reviewed the altera- 
tions that had been made in the city. 

At length, turning to Mentor, he said : " You have made 
Idomeneus one of the wisest princes upon earth ; I no longer 
know either him or his people. I am now convinced that your 
achievements here are much greater than ours in the field. 
The success of war is, in a great degree, the effect of personal 
prowess and chance, and the commander must always share 
the glory of conquest with his men ; ' but your work is prop- 
erly and exclusively your own; you have alone opposed a 
whole nation and its prince, and you have corrected the man- 
ners and principles of both. The success of war is always fatal 
and horrid : all here is the work of celestial wisdom ; all is 
gentle, pure, and lovely ; all indicates an authority more than 
human. When man is desirous of glory, why does he not 
seek it by works of benevolence like these ? Oh, how false are 
their notions of glory, who hope to acquire it by ravaging the 
earth, and by destroying mankind !" 

At this exclamation of Telemachus, Mentor felt a secret joy, 
that brightened in his countenance ; for it convinced him that 
his pupil had reduced the value of conquest and triumph to 
their true standard, at an age when it would have been but 
natural to overrate the glory he had acquired. 

" It is true," replied Mentor, after a pause, " all that Idome- 

! neus has done here is right, and deserves commendation ; but 

' he may do still better. He has now brought his passions 

under subjection, and applies himself to the government of 



Cicero {Pro Marc, 2) has a similar passage. 



516 WORKS OF FENELON. 

his people upon just principles; but he has still great faults, 
which seem to be the progeny of faults that are past. When 
we make an effort to leave familiar vices, they seem to follow 
us ; bad habits, relaxation of mind, inveterate errors, aud strong 
prejudices long remain. Happy are those who never deviated 
into error ! Their rectitude, and theirs only, can be uniform 
and constant. The gods, O Telemachus, require more from 
you than from Idomeneus ; because you have been made ac- 
quainted with truth from your earliest infancy, and have never 
been exposed to the seduction of unbounded prosperity. 

" Idomeneus," continued Mentor, " is by no means deficient 
either in penetration or knowledge ; but he wastes his abilities 
upon little things ; he is too much busied upon parts to com- 
prehend the whole. The proof of abilities in a king, as the 
supreme governor of others, does not consist in doing every 
thing himself : to attempt it is a poor ambition ; and to sup- 
pose that others will believe it can be done, an idle hope. In 
government, the king should not be the body, but the soul ; 
by his influence, and under his direction, the hands should 
operate, and the feet should walk. He should conceive what 
is to be done, but he should appoint others to do it. His 
abilities will appear in the conception of his designs, and espe- 
pecially in the choice of his instruments. He should never 
stoop to their function, nor suffer them to aspire to his. Nei- 
ther should he trust them implicitly; he ought to examine 
their proceedings, and be equally able to detect a want of 
judgment or integrity. He governs well who discerns the 
various characters and abilities of men, and employs them to 
administer government under him, in departments that are 
exactly suited to their talents. The perfection of supreme 
government consists in the governing of those that govern. 
He that presides, should try, restrain, and correct them; he 
should encourage, raise, change, and displace them ; he should 
keep them forever under his eye, and in his hand; but, to 
make the minute particulars of their subordinate departments 
objects of personal application, indicates meanness and suspi- 
cion, and fills the mind with petty anxieties, that leave it nei- 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XVII. 51 T 

ther time nor liberty for designs that are worthy of royal 
attention. To form great designs, the mind must be free and 
tranquil ; no intricacies of business must embarrass or perplex, 
no subordinate objects must divide the attention. A mind 
that is exhausted upon minute particulars, resembles the lees 
of wine, that have neither flavor nor strength. A king that 
busies himself in doing the duty of his servants, is always 
determined by present appearances, and never extends his 
view to futurity ; he is always absorbed by the business of the. 
day that is passing over him ; and this being his only object, 
it acquires an undue importance, which, if compared with 

; others, it would lose. The mind that admits but one object 

. at a time, must naturally contract ; and it is impossible to 

I judge well of any affair, without considering many, comparing 
them with each other, and ranging them in a certain order, by 

, which their relative importance will appear. He that neglects 
this rule in government, resembles a musician, who should 
content himself with the discovery of melodious tones, one by 

| one, and never think of combining or harmonizing them into 
music, which would not only gratify the ear, but affect the 

i; heart. Or he may be compared to an architect, who should 
fancy the powers of his art exhausted, by heaping together 
large columns, and great quantities of stone curiously carved, 

. without considering the proportion of his building, or the ar- 
rangement of his ornaments. Such an artist, when he was 

] building a saloon, would not reflect that a suitable staircase 
should be added ; and when he was busy upon the body of 
the building, he would forget the court-yard and the portal. 

, His work would be nothing more than a confused assemblage 
of parts, not suited to each other, not concurring to form a 
whole. Such a work would be so far from doing him honor, 
that it would be a perpetual monument of disgrace. It would 
show that his range of thought was not sufficient to include all 
the parts of his design at once, that his mind was contracted, 
and his genius subordinate ; for he that sees only from part to 
part, is fit only to execute the designs of another. Be assured, 
my dear Telemachus, that the government of a kingdom re- 



518 WORKS OF FENELON. 

quires a certain harmony like music, and just proportions like 
architecture. 

" If you will give me leave to carry on the parallel between 
these arts and government, I can easily make you comprehend 
the inferiority of those who administer government by parts, 
and not as a whole. He that sings particular parts in a con- 
cert, however great his skill or excellent his voice, is still but 
a singer; he who regulates all the parts, and conducts the 
whole, is the master of music. So, he that fashions the 
columns, and carries up the sides of a building, is no more than 
a mason ; but he who has designed the whole, and whose 
mind sees all the relations of part to part, is the architect. 
Those, therefore, who are most busy, who dispatch the great- 
est number of affairs, can least be said to govern ; they are 
only the inferior workmen. The presiding mind, the genius 
that governs the State, is he who, doing nothing, causes all to 
be done ; who meditates, contrives, looks forward to the future, 
and back to the past ; who sees relative proportions, arranges 
all things in order, and provides for remote contingencies; 
who keeps himself in perpetual exercise to wrestle with for- 
tune, as the swimmer struggles with a torrent ; and whose 
mind is night and day upon the stretch, that, anticipating all 
events, nothing may be left to chance. 

" Do you think, my dear Telemachus, that a great painter 
is incessantly toiling that he may dispatch his work with the 
greater expedition ? No : such drudgery and constraint would 
quench all the fire of imagination ; he would no longer work 
like a genius, for the genius works as he is impelled by the 
power of fancy, in sudden, vigorous, but irregular sallies. 
Does the genius spend his time in grinding colors and prepar- 
ing pencils ? No : he leaves that to others who are yet in the 
rudiments of his art. He reserves himself for the labors of 
the mind ; he transfers his ideas to the canvas in bold and 
glowing strokes, which give dignity to his figures, and animate 
them not only with life but passion. His mind teems with the 
thoughts and sentiments of the heroes he is to represent ; he 
is carried back to the ages in which they lived, and to the cir- 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XVII. 519 

cumstances in which they were placed. But with this fervid 
enthusiasm he possesses also a judgment that restrains and reg- 
ulates it, so that his whole work, however bold and animated, is 
perfectly consonant with propriety and truth. And can it be 
imagined that less elevation of genius, less effort of thought, is 
necessary to make a great king than a good painter ? Let us 
therefore conclude that the province of a king is to think, to 
form great designs, and to make choice of men properly quali- 
fied to carry them into execution." 

" I think," said Telemachus, " that I perfectly comprehend 
your meaning; but surely a king who leaves the dispatch of 
public business to others will be often imposed upon." " You 
are mistaken," replied Mentor; " a general knowledge of gov- 
ernment will always secure him against imposition. Those who 
are not acquainted with radical principles, and have not 
sagacity to discern the talents and characters of men, are 
always seeking their way like men in the dark. If these, 
indeed, escape imposition, it is by chance, for they have not a 
clear and perfect knowledge of what they seek, nor in what 
direction they should move to find it ; their knowledge is just 
sufficient to excite suspicion ; and they are rather suspicious of 
integrity that opposes them with truth, than of fraud that 
seduces them by flattery. Those, on the contrary, who know 
the principles of government, and can distinguish the charac- 
ters of men, know what is to be expected from them, and how 
to obtain it ; they know, at least, whether the persons they 
employ are, in general, proper instruments to execute their 
designs, and whether they conceive and adopt their views 
with sufficient precision and abilities to carry them into effect. 
Besides, as their attention is not divided by embarrassing par- 
ticulars, they keep the great object steadily in view, and can 
always judge whether they are approaching it. If they are 
sometimes deceived, it is in accidental and trifling matters that 
are not essential to the principal design. They are also supe- 
rior to little jealousies, which are always marks of a narrow 
mind and grovelling disposition ; they know that in great 
affairs they must in some particulars be deceived, because they 



520 WORKS OF FENELON. 

are obliged to make use of men, and men are often deceitful. 
More is lost by the delay and irresolution which arises from 
want of confidence in those who must be employed, than from 
petty frauds, by which that confidence is abused. He is com- 
paratively happy who is disappointed only in affairs of small 
moment. The great work may go on with success, and it is 
about this only that a great man ought to be solicitous. Fraud, 
indeed, should be severely punished when it is discovered, but 
he that would not be deceived in matters of importance must 
in trifles be content to be deceived. An artificer, in his work- 
room, sees every thing with his own eye, and does every thing 
with his own hand ; but a king who presides over a great 
nation can neither see all nor do all. He ought, indeed, to do 
nothing himself but what another cannot do under him ; and 
to see nothing that is not essential to some determination of 
great importance. 

" You, Telemachus," continued Mentor, " are a favorite of 
the gods, and it is their pleasure to distinguish your reign by 
wisdom. All that you see here is done less for the glory of 
Idomeneus, than for your instruction. If your virtues corre- 
spond with the designs of heaven, the wise institutions that you 
admire in Salentum are but as shadows to the substance, in 
comparison with what you will one day do in Ithaca. But 
Idomeneus has now prepared a ship for our departure, and it 
is time that we should think of quitting the coast of Hesperia." 

At the mention of their departure, Telemachus opened his 
heart to his friend, with respect to an attachment which made 
it impossible for him to leave Salentum without regret. The 
secret, however, cost him some pain. " You will blame me, 
perhaps," said he, "for yielding too easily to impressions of 
love, in the countries through which I pass ; but my heart 
would always reproach me if I should hide from you the pas- 
sion that I have conceived for Antiope, the daughter of Idom- 
eneus. This, my dear Mentor, is not a blind impulse, like that 
which you taught me to surmount in the island of Calypso. I 
know that the wound which my heart received from Eucharis 
was deep ; neither time nor absence can efface her image from 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 521 

my heart, and I cannot even now pronounce her name without 
emotion. After such experience of my weakness, I must be 
diffident of myself. But what 1 feel for Antiope is wholly dif- 
ferent from what I felt for Eucharis ; it is not the tumultuous 
desire of passion; it is the calm complacency of reason, a 
tender approbation and esteem. I desire her as my friend 
and companion for life, and if the gods shall ever restore my 
father to me, and I am permitted to choose, my fate and the 
fate of Antiope shall be one. The charms that have attached 
me to Antiope are the glowing modesty of her countenance, 
her silent diffidence and sweet reserve, her constant attention 
to tapestry, embroidery, or some other useful and elegant em- 
ployment, her diligence in the management of her father's 
household since the death of her mother, her contempt of 
excessive finery in her dress, and her total forgetfulness, or 
rather ignorance, of her beauty. When, at the command of 
Idomeneus, she leads the dance, with the beauties of Crete, to 
the soft sound of the flute, she might be well taken for Venus, 
the queen of smiles, with the Graces ' in her train. When he 
takes her with him to the chase, she discovers such skill in the 
bow, and such dignity of deportment, as distinguish Diana 
when she is surrounded by her nymphs. Of this superiority 
she alone is ignorant, while every eye remarks it with admira- 
tion. When she enters a temple with sacred offerings to the 
god, she might herself be taken for the divinity of the place. 
With what devotion and awe she presents her gifts and propi- 
tiates the gods, when some crime is to be expiated, or some 
fatal omen averted! And when she appears with a golden 
needle in her hand, surrounded by the virgins of her train, we 
are tempted to believe that Minerva has descended, in a human 
form, to the earth, and is teaching the fine arts to mankind. 
She encourages others to diligence by her example ; she sweet- 
ens labor, and suspends weariness by the melody of her voice, 



i "Now Cytherean Venus leads off the dance by moonlight, and the 
comely Graces, in conjunction with the Nymphs, shake the ground with 
alternate feet.' 



522 WORKS OF FENELON. 

when she sings the mysterious history of the gods; and she 
excels the most exquisite painters in the elegance of her em- 
broidery. How happy the man whom Hymen shall unite with 
her by a gentle band ! What can he suffer but her loss ? — 
what can he fear but to survive her? 

" But I take the gods to witness, my dear Mentor, that I am 
ready to depart. I shall love Antiope forever, but she shall 
not delay my return to Ithaca a moment. If another shall 
possess her, I shall be wretched ; yet 1 will leave her. Although 
I know that I may lose her by absence, I will not mention my 
love either to her or to her father; for I ought to conceal it in 
my bosom from all but you, till Ulysses, again seated upon his 
throne, shall permit me to reveal it. Judge, then, my dear 
Mentor, how much my attachment to Antiope differs from that 
passion for Eucharis, by which you remember both my virtue 
and reason to have been overborne." 

"I am sensible of this difference," said Mentor. "Antiope 
is all gentleness, prudence, and simplicity ; her hands do not 
despise labor; she looks forward with a provident forecast; 
she provides for contingencies ; she dispatches pressing affairs 
with silent expedition ; she is always busy, but never confused, 
for every thing is referred to its proper time and place. The 
elegant regularity of her father's household is her glory — a 
nobler distinction than youth and beauty. Though the whole 
is submitted to her management, and it is her province to 
reprove, to deny, to spare, which make almost every woman 
hated, she is yet beloved by the whole house ; for she discovers 
neither passion, nor obstinacy, nor levity, nor caprice, which 
are so often blemishes in the sex ; a glance of her eye is a 
sufficient command, and every one obeys from an unwillingness 
to displease her. She gives particular directions with exact- 
ness and precision ; she commands nothing that cannot be 
executed; there is kindness even in her reproof, and she 
encourages to amendment while she blames for misconduct. 
She is the solace of her father's fatigue and care, and to her 
his mind retreats for rest, as a traveller, fainting with heat in 
the summer's sun, retreats to the shade of a grove and reposes 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 523 

in luxurious ease upon the downy turf. Antiope is, indeed, a 
treasure that would repay the most distant and laborious 
search. Her mind, no more than her person, is dishonored by 
trilling ornaments ; her imagination is lively, but not uncon- 
trolled ; she speaks only when it is improper to refrain, and in 
her speech there is an artless grace, a soft but irresistible per- 
suasion. All listen in silence when she speaks, and she blushes 
with confusion; the deference and attention with which she is 
heard make it difficult for her modesty not to suppress what 
she intended to say. 

" We have, indeed, heard her speak but seldom, yet you 
once heard her upon an occasion which I am sure you cannot 
forget. She was one day sent for by her father, when he was 
about to punish one of his slaves with exemplary severity. She 
appeared with her head modestly reclined, and her face covered 
with a long veil. She spoke, but she said no more than was 
just necessary to appease his anger. At first she seemed to 
take part in his resentment ; she then softened it by insensible 
degrees; at last she insinuated an apology for the offender, 
and, without wounding the king, by making him feel that he 
had been excessively angry, she kindled in- his bosom senti- 
ments of justice and compassion. The tumult of his mind 
subsided under an easy but irresistible influence, as the yield- 
ing waves insensibly lose their undulation when hoary Nereus 
is soothed into peace by the gentle blandishments of his daugh- 
ter Thetis. Thus will the heart of a husband one day respond 
to the influence of Antiope, though she assumes no authority, 
nor takes advantage of her charms, as the lute now answers to 
her touch when she wakes it to the tenderest strains. Antiope 
is indeed worthy of your affection, and she is intended for you 
by the gods; but though your love for her is justified by 
roason, you must wait till she is given you by Ulysses. I 
commend you for having concealed your sentiments, and I may 
n:>w tell you that if you had made any propositions to Antiope, 
they would have been rejected, and you would have forfeited 
her esteem. She will enter into no engagement, but leaves 
herself wholly to the disposal of her father. He that hopes to 



524: WORKS OF FENELON. 

be her husband, must reverence the gods and fulfil every duty 
to man. I have observed — and has it not been observed by 
you ? — that she is less seen, and that her eyes are more fre- 
quently fixed upon the ground, than before your expedition. 
She is not a stranger to any of your achievements in the war ; 
she is acquainted with your birth and your adventures, and she 
knows the endowments which you have received from the gods: 
this knowledge has increased her reserve. Let us then depart 
for Ithaca ; my task will be accomplished when I have assisted 
you to find your father, and put you in a condition to obtain a 
wife worthy of the golden age. If Antiope, a royal virgin, the 
daughter of Idomeneus, king of Salentum, were a keeper of 
sheep upon the bleak summit of Mount Algidus, the possession 
of Antiope would still be happiness and honor." 

Idomeneus, who dreaded the departure of Telemachus and 
Mentor, formed many pretences to delay them. He told Men- 
tor that he could not without his assistance determine a dis- 
pute which had arisen between Diophanes, a priest of Jupiter 
Conservator, and Heliodorus, a priest of Apollo, concerning 
the omens that were to be drawn from the flight of birds and 
the entrails of victims. 

" And why," said Mentor, " should you concern yourself 
about sacred things? Leave questions of religion to be de- 
cided by the Etrurians, who have preserved the most ancient 
oracles by tradition, and who are by inspiration interpreters of 
the gods to men. Employ your authority only to suppress 
these disputes in the beginning ; act with perfect neutrality 
while they continue, and content yourself with supporting the 
decision when it shall be made. Remember that kings ought 
to submit to religion, and not to make it : religion is from the 
gods, and above regal authority. If kings concern themselves 
with religion, they do not protect it as a divine institution, 
but degrade it to a mere instrument of State policy. The 
power of kings is so great, and that of others so little, that 
religion would be in danger of becoming just what the sover- 
eign would wish to make it, if he should undertake to de- 
termine any question about its doctrines or duties. Leave 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 525 

then the decision of these questions implicitly to the friends 
of the gods, and exert your authority only against those who 
will not conform to their determination when it is made." 

Idomeneus then complained of the perplexity he suffered 
from the great number of cases between private persons, which 
he was pressed, with great importunity, to decide. 

" Decide," said Mentor, " all new questions of right, by 
which some general maxim of jurisprudence will be estab- 
lished, or some precedent given for the explanation of laws 
already in force ; but do not take upon you to determine all 
questions of private property ; they would overwhelm and em* 
barrass you by their variety and number ; justice would neces- 
sarily be delayed for your single decision, and all subordinate 
magistrates would become useless. You would be over- 
whelmed and confounded; the regulation of petty affairs 
would leave you neither time nor thought for business of im- 
portance, and, after all, petty affairs would not be regulated. 
Avoid, therefore, a state of such disadvantage and perplexity ; 
refer private disputes to subordinate judges, and do nothing 
yourself but what others cannot do for you. You will then 
fulfil the real duties of a king." 

" But," said Idomeneus? " there are many persons of high 
birth about me who have followed my fortunes, and lost great 
possessions in my service ; these persons seek some kind of 
recompense for their losses, by obtaining certain young women 
of great wealth in marriage : they urge me with incessant im- 
portunity to interpose in their behalf, and a single word from 
me would insure them success." 

" It is true," said Mentor, " a single word from you would 
be sufficient, but that single word would cost you too dear. 
Would you deprive fathers and mothers of the liberty and 
consolation of choosing their sons-in-law, and, consequently, 
their heirs ? This surely would reduce them to the severest 
and most abject slavery, and make you answerable for all the 
domestic evils of your people. Marriage, at the best, is not 
the couch of unmingled delight, and why should you scatter 
new thorns among the down ? If you have faithful servants 



526 WORKS OF FENELON. 

to reward, distribute among them some unappropriated lands, 
and give them, besides, rank and honors suited to their merits 
and condition ; if more still is necessary, add to these pe- 
cuniary gratifications from your treasury, and make good the 
deficiency by retrenching your expense ; but never think of 
paying your own debts with the property of others, much less 
with property transferred in violation of the most sacred rights, 
by giving a daughter in marriage without the consent of her 
parents." 

This difficulty being removed, Idomeneus immediately pro- 
posed another. " The Sybarites," said he, " complain that 
certain districts which we have given, as uncultivated lands, 
among the strangers whom we have drawn to Salentum, be- 
long to them. Must I admit this claim? and shall 1 not 
encourage other nations to make demands upon our territory, 

if i do r 

" The Sybarites," said Mentor, " should not be implicitly 
believed in their own cause ; nor is it just to believe you im- 
plicitly in yours." " Upon whose testimony will you then 
depend ?" said Idomeneus. " Upon that of neither of the 
parties," replied Mentor ; " some neighboring nation that can- 
not be suspected of partiality to either must determine between 
you. The Sipontines are such a nation ; they have no interest 
that is incompatible with yours." 

" But am I obliged," said Idomeneus, " to submit to an 
umpire ? Am I not a sovereign prince ? and is a sovereign 
prince to leave the* extent of his dominions to the decision of 
foreigners ?" 

" If you resolve to keep the lands in question," answered 
Mentor, " you must suppose that your claim is good. If the 
Sybarites insist upon a restoration, they must, on their part, 
suppose their right to be incontestable. Your opinions being 
thus opposite, the difference must either be accommodated by 
an umpire mutually chosen, or decided by force of arms : 
there is no medium. If you should enter a country inhabited 
by people who had neither judge nor magistrate, and among 
whom every family assumed a right of determining dirTeren- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 527 

ces with a neighboring family by violence, would you not 
deplore their misfortune, and think with horror of the dreadful 
confusion which must arise from every man's being armed 
against his fellow ? Can you then believe that the gods would 
look with less horror upon the earth, of which all the inhabit- 
ants may be considered as one people, if every nation, which 
is but a more numerous family, should assume the right of 
determining by violence all differences with a neighboring na- 
tion ? An individual, who possesses his field as an inheritance 
from his ancestors, depends wholly upon the authority of the 
laws, and the judgment of the magistrate, for the security of 
his property, and would be severely punished, as guilty of se- 
dition, if he should endeavor to secure by force what was 
given him by right. Do you then believe that kings are at 
liberty to support their pretensions by violence, without hav- 
ing first tried what could be done by expedients more conso- 
nant to reason and humanity ? Is not justice yet more sacred 
and inviolable, as an attribute of kings, when it has whole 
nations for its object, than as a private virtue in an individual, 
when it relates to a ploughed field ? Is he a villain and a 
robber who seizes only a few acres, and is he just, is he a hero, 
who wrests whole provinces from their possessor ? If men are 
subject to prejudice, partiality, and error," with respect to the 
trifling concerns of property, is it probable that they will be 
less influenced by such motives in affairs of State ? Should 
we rely upon our own judgment where it is most likely to be 
biased by passion ? and should not error be most dreaded 
where its consequences will be most fatal ? The mistake of a 
prince with respect to his own pretensions is the cause of 
ravage, famine, massacres*, depravation of manners, the mourn- 
ful effects of which may extend to the end of time. A king 
knows that he is always surrounded by flatterers ; should he 
not therefore suppose that upon such occasions he will be flat- 
tered ? If he leaves his differences to arbitration, he shows him- 
self candid, equitable, and dispassionate. He states the reasons 
upon which his claim is founded. The umpire is an amicable 
mediator, not a rigorous judge. Though his determinations 



528 WORKS OF FENELON, 

do not compel implicit obedience, yet the greatest deference 
should be paid to them : he does not pronounce sentence like 
a judge, from whose authority there is no appeal ; but he pro- 
poses expedients, and, by his advice, the parties make mutual 
concessions for the preservation of peace. If war is at last 
inevitable, notwithstanding the king's utmost endeavors to 
avoid it, he will, at least, have secured the testimony of a good 
conscience, the esteem of his neighbors, and the protection of 
the gods." 

Idomeneus felt the force of this reasoning, and consented 
that the Sipontines should mediate between him and the 
Sybarites. 

The king, finding these expedients to prevent the departure 
of the two strangers ineffectual, endeavored to detain them by 
a stronger tie. He had observed the attachment of Telem- 
achus for Antiope ; and he hoped that, by strengthening this, 
he might accomplish his purpose. When he gave an enter- 
tainment, therefore, he frequently commanded his daughter to 
sing. She obeyed, from a sense of duty ; but it was with such 
regret and confusion as made it easy to perceive how much 
she suffered by her obedience. Idomeneus went so far as to 
intimate his desire that the subject of her song might be the 
victory which had been obtained over the Daunians and Adras- 
tus ; but she could not be prevailed upon to sing the praises of 
Telemachus : she declined it with modest respect, and her 
father thought fit to acquiesce. There was something in her 
voice inexpressibly tender and sweet ; Telemachus felt all its 
power, and his emotion was too great to be concealed. Idom- 
eneus remarked it with pleasure; but Telemachus appeared 
not to perceive his design : he could *not quench the sensibility 
of passion, but reason precluded its effects. He was no longer 
that Telemachus, whom love, the tyrant of the mind, had once 
held captive in the island of Calypso. While Antiope sung, 
he was silent ; and, as soon as the song was over, he turned 
the conversation to some other subject. 

The king, being again disappointed, resolved to give his 
daughter the pleasure of a great hunting party. She declined 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 529 

the sport, and entreated with tears to be left behind ; but the 
commands of Idomeneus were peremptory, and she was obliged 
to obey. She was mounted upon a fiery steed, which, like 
those that Castor had trained to war, disdained the ground, 
and was impatient of the rein ; yet she governed him with 
such easy negligence, that he seemed to move by the secret 
impulse of her will. A train of virgins followed her with that 
ardor which is the distinction and felicity of youth ; and she 
might have been taken for Diana with her nymphs. 1 The king 
followed her incessantly with his eye; and while he gazed 
upon his child he forgot the past misfortunes of his life. She 
fixed also the attention of Telemachus, who was more touched 
with her modesty than with the graces of her person or her dex- 
terity in the field. 

The dogs gave chase to a wild boar of enormous size, and 
furious as that of Calydon. The bristles of his back were 
as rigid as iron, and as sharp and long as a dart; his eyes 
seemed to sparkle with fire, and to be suffused with blood; 8 
his breath was heard at a great distiince, like the hoarse 
murmurs of rebellious winds, when iEolus recalls them to his 
cave, that the tempest may cease : his long tusks were crooked 
like a sickle, nor could the trees of the forest stand before 
them. He gored all the dogs that had courage to approach 
him. The boldest hunters that pursued him were afraid to 
overtake him. 

Antiope, who in the course was swifter than the wind, 
came up and attacked him. She threw a javelin at him, which 
wounded him in the shoulder. The blood gushed out in a 
torrent, and he turned upon his adversary with new fury. 
The horse of Antiope, although bold and spirited, shuddered 



* " As on the banks of Eurotas, or on Mount Cynthus 1 top, Diana leads 
the circular dance, round whom a numerous train of mountain nymphs 
play in rings." — Virgil, ^£n., f. 495. 
3 "A boar .... than which not even does verdant Epirus possess 

bulls of greater size His eyes shine with blood and flames, his 

rough neck is stiff; bristles, too, stand up like spikes, thickly set." — Ovid, 
[Metam.y viii. 284. 
23 



530 WORKS OF FENELON. 

and drew back. The monster then rushed against him. and 
the shock was like that of the ponderous engines that overturn 
the bulwarks of the strongest city. The horse could not sus- 
tain it, and fell. Antiope was now upon the ground, in a situa- 
tion that left her no power to avoid the tusks of the furious 
animal whom she had provoked. But Telemachus, whose 
attention had been engrossed by her danger, had already dis- 
mounted. With a rapidity scarcely less than that of lightning, 
he threw himself between 'her and the boar that was foaming 
to revenge his wound. The prince instantly plunged a hunt- 
ing spear into his body, and the horrid monster fell, agonized 
with fury, to the ground. 

Telemachus cut off the head, which astonished the hunters, 
and was still terrible when nearly viewed. lie presented it 
immediately to Antiope, who blushed, and consulted the eyes 
of Idomeneus, to know what she should do. Idomeneus, who 
had been terrified at her danger, and was now transported 
with joy at her deliverance, made a sign that she should accept 
the present. She took it, therefore, saying to Telemachus : 
" I receive from you, with gratitude, a more valuable gift ; for 
I am indebted to you for my life." The moment she had 
spoken, she feared she had said too much, and fixed her eyes 
upon the ground. Telemachus, who perceived her confusion, 
could only reply : " How happy is the son of Ulysses, to have 
preserved a life so precious! How much more happy, if he 
could unite it with his own !" Antiope made no answer, but 
hastily rejoined her young companions, and immediately re- 
mounted her horse. 

Idomeneus would immediately have promised his daughter 
to Telemachus, but he hoped that, in a state of uncertainty, 
his passion would still increase, and that the hope of insuring 
his marriage, would prevent his departure from Salentum. 
Such were the principles upon which Idomeneus reasoned ; 
but the gods deride and disappoint the wisdom of men. The 
very project that was formed to detain Telemachus, hastened : 
his departure. The tumult of love, and hope, and fear, which 
he now felt in his breast, made him justly distrust his resolution. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 531 

Mentor labored with double diligence, to revive his desire of 
returning to Ithaca ; and, the vessel being now ready, he also 
pressed Idomeneus to dismiss them. Thus, the life of Telem- 
achus being every moment regulated by the wisdom of Men- 
tor, with a view to the consummation of his glory, he was 
suffered to remain no longer at any place than was necessary 
to exercise his virtues, and add experience to knowledge. 

Mentor, as soon as Telemachus arrived, had given orders 
that the vessel should be got ready. Jdomeneus- had seen the 
preparations with inexpressible regret ; and when he perceived 
that the guests, from whom he had derived advantages so 
numerous and important, could be detained no longer, he 
gave himself up to melancholy and despair. He shut himself 
up in the innermost recesses of his palace, and endeavored to 
soothe his anguish by venting it in sighs and tears. He forgot 
that nature was to be sustained with food, and no interval of 
tranquillity was bestowed by sleep. His health gradually de- 
clined, and the secret anxiety of his heart consumed him. He 
withered like a stately tree which covers the earth with its 
shade, but is gnawed by a worm at the root : the winds in 
their fury may have attacked it in vain ; the earth may have 
nourished it with delight ; and it may have been spared, in 
1 reverence, by the axe ; but if the latent mischief is not discov- 
' ered, it will fade ; its leaves, which are its honors, will be scat- 
tered in the dust ; and the trunk and branches only, rifted and 
sapless, will remain. Such, in appearance, was Idomeneus, the 
victim of inconsolable grief. 

Telemachus was tenderly affected at his distress, but did not 
dare to speak to him. He dreaded the day of departure, and 
was always busied in finding pretences for delay ; but he was 
at length delivered from this state of embarrassment and sus- 
pense by Mentor. " I am glad," said he, " to see this altera- 
| tion in your temper. You were, by nature, obdurate and 
haughty, sensible only to your own conveniences and inter- 
ests ; but you are now softened into humanity, and your mis- 
fortunes have taught you to compassionate the sufferings of 
others. Without this sympathy, there can be neither good- 



532 WORKS OF FENELON. 

ness, nor virtue, nor ability to govern ; btft it must not be 
carried to excess, nor suffered to degenerate into feminine 
softness. I would myself solicit Idomeneus to dismiss you, 
and spare you the embarrassment of so painful a conversation ; 
but I am unwilling that a false shame and unmanly timidity 
should predominate in your breast. You must learn to blend 
fortitude and courage with the tenderness and sensibility of 
friendship. You should preserve an habitual fear of giving 
unnecessary pain ; when you are compelled to grieve any man, 
you should participated his sorrow, and make the blow fall 
lightly which you cannot avert." "That an inevitable stroke 
may be thus lightened," said Telemachus, " is the reason why 
I wish that Idomeneus should be acquainted with our depart- 
ure rather by you than by myself." 

"My dear Telemachus," said Mentor, "you mistake your 
motive. You are like all other children of royalty, who expect 
that every thing should be managed so as to coincide with 
their desires, and that the laws of nature should be subservi- 
ent to their will ; yet they have not resolution to oppose any 
man to his face. They avoid an opposition, not in tenderness 
to others, not from a principle of benevolence, that fears to 
give pain, but from a regard to their own convenience and 
gratification, since they cannot bear to be surrounded with 
mournful or discontented countenances. They are touched 
with the miseries of men only as with objects disagreeable to 
the eye. They will not hear of misfortune because it is a dis- 
gustful subject. Lest their fancy should be offended, they must 
be told that all is prosperity and happiness ; surrounded with 
delights, they will neither see nor hear any thing that may in- 
terrupt their joy. If misconduct is to be reproved, error 
detected, importunity repressed, false claims opposed, or fac- 
tious turbulence controlled, they will always depute another 
for the purpose, rather than declare their own will with that 
gentle firmness which enforces obedience without kindling 
resentment. They will tamely suffer the most unreasonable 
favors to be extorted, and the most important affairs to mis- 
carry, rather than determine for themselves against the opinion 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 533 

of those who are continually about them. This weakness is 
easily discovered, and every one improves it to his advantage ; 
every request becomes in effect a demand ; it is urged with the 
most pernicious and troublesome importunity, and is granted 
that importunity may be troublesome no more. The first 
attempt upon the prince is by flattery : by this, designing para- 
sites recommend themselves to favor, but they are no sooner 
trusted to serve than they aspire to govern : they rule their 
lord by the very power they have derived from him ; their 
bridle is in his mouth, and their yoke upon his shoulders ; he 
groans under it, and sometimes he makes an effort to throw it 
off; this effort is soon remitted, and he bears the yoke to his 
grave. He dreads the appearance of being governed, yet 
tamely suffers the reality : to be governed is indeed necessary 
to such princes ; for they resemble the feeble branches of a vine, 
which, not being able to support themselves, always creep 
around the trunk of some neighboring tree. 

" I must not suffer you, O Telemachus, to fall into this state 
of imbecility, which cannot fail to render you wholly unfit for 
command. Though you dare not speak to Idomeneus, lest 
you should wound his sensibility, you will yet have no sense of 
your affliction when the gates of Salentum are behind you ; 
you are even now less melted by his grief than embarrassed by 
his presence. Go, then, and speak to him for yourself ; learn, 
upon this occasion, to unite the tender and the firm ; let him 
see that you leave him with regret, but that you are determined 
to leave him." 

Telemachus did not dare to oppose Mentor, nor yet to seek 
Idomeneus ; he was ashamed of his timidity, and yet unable to 
surmount it ; he hesitated, he went forward a few steps, and 
then returned to Mentor, with some new pretence for delay 
He was about to speak, but the very look of Mentor deprived 
him of the power, and silently confuted all that he would have 
said. " Is this, then," said Mentor, with a smile of disdain. 
" the conqueror of the Daunians, the deliverer of Hesperia ? Is 
this the son of the wise Ulysses, who is to succeed him as the 
oracle of Greece ? and does he not dare to tell Idomeneus that 



534 WORKS OF FENELON. 

he can no longer delay his return to his country, where he 
hopes once more to embrace his father ? wretched Ithaca ! 
how great will be thy misfortune if thou art one day to be 
governed by a prince who is himself a slave to an unworthy 
shame ; and who, to gratify his weakness in the lightest trifle, 
will sacrifice the most important interest ! Remark now the 
difference between the sedate fortitude of the closet, and the 
tumultuous courage of the field : you feared not the arms of 
Adrastus, yet are intimidated by the grief of ldomeneus. This 
inequality often brings dishonor upon those princes who have 
been distinguished by the noblest achievements ; after they 
have appeared heroes in battle, they have been found less than 
men in common occurrences, in which others have been con- 
sistent and steady." 

Telemachus, feeling the force of these truths, and stung with 
the reproach they contained, turned abruptly away, and de- 
bated no longer even with himself. But when he approached 
the place where ldomeneus was sitting pale and languishing, 
his eyes fixed upon the ground, and his heart overwhelmed 
with sorrow, they became in a moment afraid of each other ; 
they did not dare to interchange a look. Their thoughts were 
mutually known, without language ; each dreaded that the 
other should break silence ; and in this painful suspense both 
burst into tears. At length ldomeneus, pressed by excess of 
anguish, cried out : " Why should we seek virtue, since those 
who find her are thus wretched ? I am made sensible of my 
weakness, and then abandoned to its effects. Be it so ; and 
let the past calamities of my life return. I will hear no more 
of good government ; I know not the art, and am weary of 
the labor. But as for you, Telemachus, whither would you 
go ? To seek your father is in vain, for among the living he 
is not to be found. Ithaca is in possession of your enemies, 
who will destroy you if you return, and one of whom is now 
certainly the husband of your mother. Be content, therefore, 
to continue at Salentum ; my daughter shall be your wife, and 
my kingdom your inheritance. Your power here, even while 
I live, shall be absolute ; and my confidence in you without 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK XVH. 535 

limits. If these advantages are unworthy of your acceptance, 
at least leave me Mentor, who is my last resource. Speak — 
answer me ; let not your heart be steeled against me, nor deny 
your pity to the most unfortunate of men. Alas ! you are still 
silent. The gods are still inexorable ; I feel more sensibly 
their resentment at Salentum than at Crete ; and the loss of 
Telemachus wounds me deeper than the death of my son." 

Telemachus replied, in a timid and faltering tone : " My de- 
parture from Salentum is not choice, but fate. I am com- 
manded to Ithaca by the gods ; their wisdom is communicated 
to Mentor, and Mentor has urged my departure in their name. 
What then can I do? Should I renounce my father, my 
mother, and my country, that should be yet dearer than both ? 
As I am born to royalty,- a life of ease and pleasure must not 
be my portion, nor must inclination be my guide. With your 
kingdom, I should possess more wealth and power than my 
father's can bestow ; but I ought to prefer what the gods 
have decreed me, to what your bounty has offered in its stead. 
If Antiope was my wife, I should think myself too happy to 
desire your kingdom ; but that I may deserve Antiope, I must 
go whither I am called by duty, and she must be demanded for 
me by my father. Did you not promise to send me back to 
Ithaca ? Was it not under this promise that I marched against 
your enemy Adrastus, with the army of the allies ? It is now 
time that I should attend to my own interest, and endeavor to 
redress the misfortunes of my family. The gods, who have 
given me to Mentor, have also given Mentor to the son of 
Ulysses, that, guided by his wisdom, he might fulfil their pur- 
pose. Would you, then, have me lose Mentor, when all but 
Mentor is lost already ? I have now no worldly goods, no re- 
treat, no father, no mother, no certain country. One man, 
distinguished for virtue and for wisdom, is all that remains ; 
and this, indeed, is the most valuable gift of Jove : judge, 
then, if I can renounce this bounty, and consent to be totally 
destitute and forlorn. I would cease to be, rather than be 
thus : life itself is of less value than a friend ; take my life, 
therefore, but leave me Mentor !" 



536 WOEKS OF FENELON. 

While Telemaehus was speaking, his voice became stronger 
and his timidity vanished. Idomeneus could not acquiesce, 
though he knew not what to reply. Being unable to speak, 
he endeavored to excite pity by looks and gestures of distress. 
At this moment he perceived Mentor, who said to him in a 
solemn tone, but without severity : 

" Do not give way to unreasonable sorrow. We leave you ; 
but we leave you to that wisdom which presides in the councils 
of the gods. Remember with gratitude that we were sent by 
the direction of that wisdom to correct your errors and pre- 
serve your State. We have restored Philocles, and he will 
serve you with fidelity : reverence for the gods, delight in 
virtue, love for the people, and compassion for the wretched, 
will be always predominant in his bosom. Listen to his ad- 
vice, and employ him without jealousy or distrust. The most 
important service he can render you, is to tell you your faults 
without disguise or palliation. A good king is distinguished by 
the noblest fortitude ; he fears not the monitor in the friend, 
nor shrinks from the sight of his own failings. If you are 
endowed with this fortitude, you have nothing to fear from our 
absence ; the felicity of your life is secure : but if flattery, 
which steals its winding way like a serpent, should once more 
get access to your heart, and render you suspicious of disinter- 
ested counsel, you are undone. Pine no longer in voluntary 
subjection to sorrow, but follow virtue with the utmost effort 
of your mind, I have instructed Philocles to lighten your 
cares, and deserve your confidence ; and I will be answerable 
for his integrity. The gods have given him to you, as they 
have given me to Telemaehus. The destiny which they have 
allotted us, we should fulfil boldly ; for to regret it is in vain. 
If my assistance should be necessary, after I have restored 
Telemaehus to his father and his country, I will return ; and 
what could give me more sensible delight? I seek, for my- 
self, neither wealth nor power ; and I wish only to assist others 
in the search of justice and virtue. To you, I have a partic- 
ular attachment, for the generous confidence of your friend- 
ship can never be forgotten." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVII. 537 

While Mentor was speaking, Idorneneus became conscious 
of a sudden and pleasing change. He felt his passions subside 
into peace, as the waves sink to rest, and the tempest is hushed 
to silence, when the father of the deep lifts his trident against 
them. Nothing now remained but a kind of tender regret — 
something that was rather a soft and soothing melancholy 
than grief. Courage, hope, virtue, and confidence in the gods, 
began once more to kindle in his bosom. 

" Well then, my dear Mentor," said he, " I must lose all, 
and be content ; let me, however, be still present to your mind. 
When you shall have arrived in Ithaca, where the reward of 
wisdom shall fill all your wishes, remember that Salentum is 
your own work ; and that Idorneneus, inconsolable for your 
loss, has no hope but in your return. Farewell, son of 
Ulysses ! my ports shall detain you no longer ; the gods reclaim 
the treasure which they have lent, and it is my duty to com- 
ply. Farewell, Mentor, the greatest and wisest of men (if 
such excellence as thine is within the limits of our nature, and 
thou art not a divinity that has assumed the form to call 
strength from weakness, and from simplicity wisdom) ; be still 
the guide and guardian of Telemachus, who is more fortunate 
to be thy charge than to be the conqueror of Adrastus. I 
dismiss you both : I will restrain my words; my sighs are in- 
voluntary, and may therefore be forgiven. Go, live together, 
and together be happy ; I have nothing left but the remem- 
brance that I once shared your felicity. The golden moments 
are past, and I knew not their value ; they fled in haste, alas ! 
and they will never return ! I have possessed you ; but the 
joy is vanished! I now see you, but I shall see you no 



more 



i" 



Mentor took this opportunity to withdraw ; he embraced 
Philocles, who burst into tears and was unable to speak. 
Telemachus would have taken hold of Mentor's hand, that he 
might quit that of Idorneneus ; but Idorneneus, placing him- 
self between them, went towards the port: he gazed upon 
them by turns ; he sighed ; and frequently began to speak ; 
but his voice faltered, and he left the sentence unfinished. 

23* 



538 WORKS OF FENELON. 

And now they heard, in a confused murmur, the voices of 
the mariners that crowded the shore ; the cordage wss 
stretched, the sails were set, and a favorable wind sprung up. 
Telemachus and Mentor, with tears in their eyes, took Leave 
of the king, who held them long in his arms, and followed 
them with his eyes as far as they could be seen. 



BOOK XVIII. 

Telemachus, during the voyage, prevails upon Mentor to explain many dif- 
ficulties iu the art of government, particularly that of distinguishing the 
characters of men, so as to employ the good, and avoid being deceived 
by the bad. During this conversation, a calm obliges them to put into a 
little island where Ulysses had just gone ashore. Telemachus sees and 
speaks to him without knowing 1 who he is; but, after having seen him 
embark, feels a secret uneasiness, of which he cannot imagine the cause. 
Mentor explains it, and comforts him, assuring him that he shall soon 
meet with his father again. He puts his patience and piety to another 
trial, by detaining him to sacrifice to Minerva. Finally, the goddess, 
who had been concealed under the figure of Mentor, resumes her own 
form, and is known and acknowledged by Telemachus. She gives him 
her last instructions, and disappears. Telemachus arrives in Ithaca, and 
finds his father at the house of his faithful servant Eumenes. 

The sails now swell with the breeze, the anchor is weighed, 
and the shore seems to retreat. The experienced pilot per- 
ceives at a distance the promontory of Leucate, which conceals 
its summit in the hoary mists that are blown around it by the 
freezing whirlwind, and the Acroceraunian mountains, which 
still lift their presumptuous brow to heaven, though blasted so 
often by the bolts of Jove. 

" I believe," said Telemachus to Mentor, during the voyage, 
" that I now perfectly understand the maxims of government 
that you have given me. They appear, at first, like the con- 
fused images of a dream ; but, by degrees, they become clear 
and distinct, — as all objects appear obscure and cloudy at the 
first dawn of the morning, but at length rise gradually, like a 
new creation out of chaos, as the light, increasing by insensi- 
ble degrees, gives them their true forms and natural colors. I 
am persuaded that the great secret of government is to distin- 
guish the different characters of men, to select them for differ- 
ent purposes, and allot to each the employment which is most 



540 WORKS OF FENELON. 

suited to his talents ; but I am still to learn how characters are 
thus to be distinguished." 

" Men," replied Mentor, " to be known, must be studied, and 
to be studied they must frequently be seen and talked io. 
Kings ought to converse with their subjects, hear their senti- 
ments, and consult them; they should also trust them with 
some small employment, and see how they discharge it, in 
order to judge whether they are capable of more important 
service. By what means, my dear Telemachus, did you ac- 
quire, in Ithaca, your knowledge of horses ? Was it not by 
seeing them frequently, and by conversing with persons of ex- 
perience concerning their excellences and defects? In the 
same manner, converse with the wise and good, who have 
grown old in the study of human nature, concerning the 
defects and excellences of men ; you will thus, insensibly, 
acquire a nice discernment of character, and know what may 
be expected from every man that falls under your observation. 
How have you been taught to distinguish the poet from the 
mere writer of verses, bat by frequent reading, and conversa- 
tion with persons who have a good taste for poetry ? And 
how have you acquired judgment in music, but by the same 
application to the subject ? How is it possible that men should 
be well governed, if they are not known ? and how can the 
knowledge of men be acquired, but by living among them ? 
But seeing them in public, where they talk of indifferent sub- 
jects, and say nothing that has not been premeditated, is by no 
means living among them. They must be seen in private, 
their latent sentiments must be traced to the secret recesses of 
the heart, they must be viewed in every light, they must be 
sounded, and their principles of action ascertained. But to 
form a right judgment of men, it is principally necessary to 
know what they ought to be ; a clear and definite idea of real 
merit is absolutely necessary to distinguish those who have it 
from those who have it not. 

" Men are continually talking of virtue and merit, but there 
are few who know precisely what is meant by either. They 
are splendid terms, indeed, but, to the greater part of those 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XYIH. 541 

who take a pride in perpetually repeating them, of uncertain 
signification. Justice, reason, and virtue, must be resolved 
into some certain principles before it can be determined who 
are just, reasonable, and virtuous. The maxims of a wise and 
good administration must be known, before those who adopt 
them can be distinguished from those who substitute false re- 
finement and political cunning in their stead. To take the 
dimensions of different bodies, we must have a standard meas- 
ure ; to judge of qualities and characters, we must have some 
fixed and invariable principles to which they may be referred. 
We must know precisely what is the great purpose of human 
life, and to what end the government of mankind should be 
directed. The sole end of all government is to fender mankind 
virtuous and happy ; and with this great end, the notion that 
a prince is invested with the regal power and authority for his 
own sake, is wholly incompatible. This notion can only grat- 
ify the pride of a tyrant ; a good king lives but for his people, 
and sacrifices his own ease and pleasure to their advantage. 
He whose eye is not invariably fixed upon this great end — the 
public good, if in any instance he attains it, will attain it by 
chance ; he will float in the stream of time, like a ship in the 
ocean, without a pilot, the stars unobserved, and the shores 
unknown. In such a situation, is it possible to avoid ship- 
wreck ? 

" It frequently happens that princes, not knowing in what 
virtue consists, know not what they ought to seek in men. 
They mistake virtue for austerity ; it offends them by appear- 
ing to want complacency, and to affect independence ; and, 
touched at once with fear and disgust, they turn from it to 
flattery. From this moment sincerity and virtue are to be 
found no more ; the prince is seduced by a phantom of false 
glory, which renders him unworthy of the true. He persuades 
himself that there is no such thing as virtue upon the earth ; 
for, though the good can distinguish the wicked, the wicked 
cannot distinguish the good, and what they cannot distinguish, 
they suppose not to exist. They know enough to render them 
suspicious ; but not knowing more, they suspect all alike ; they 



542 WORKS OF FENELON. 

retire from the public eye, and immure themselves in the 
palace ; they impute the most casual trifles to craft and aesign ; 
they are a terror to men, and men a terror to them. They 
love darkness, and disguise their character, which, however, is 
perfectly known ; for the malignant curiosity of their subjects 
penetrates every veil, and investigates every secret. But he 
that is thus known by all, knows nobody. The self-interested 
who surround him, rejoice to perceive that he is inaccessible. A 
prince that is inaccessible to men, is inaccessible to truth : those 
who avail themselves of his blindness, are busy to calumniate 
or to banish from his presence all who would open his eyes. 
He lives in a kind of savage and unsocial magnificence, always 
the dupe of that imposition which he at once dreads and de- 
serves. He that converses only with a small number, almost 
necessarily adopts their passions and their prejudices, and from 
passions and prejudices the best are not free. He must also 
receive his knowledge by report, and therefore lie at the 
mercy of tale-bearers, a despicable and detestable race, who 
are nourished by the poison that destroys others ; who make 
what is little great, and what is blameless criminal; who, rather 
than not impute evil, invent it ; and who, to answer their own 
purposes, play upon the causeless suspicion and unworthy curi- 
osity of a weak and jealous prince. 

" Let the great object of your knowledge, therefore, my 
dear Telemachus, be men. Examine them ; hear one man's 
opinion of another ; try them by degrees ; trust yourself im- 
plicitly to none. Profit by your experience, when you shall 
have been d.eceived in your judgment, which sometimes will 
certainly happen ; for wicked men disguise themselves with 
too much art to be always detected. Form your opinion of 
others, therefore, with caution ; do not hastily determine either 
that they are bad or good ; for, in either case, a mistake may 
be dangerous : thus even from error you will derive wisdom. 
When you find a man of virtue and abilities, do not use him 
only, but trust him ; for such men like to have others appear 
sensible of their merit, and set a much higher value upon con- 
fidence and esteem than upon pecuniary rewards. But do not 



TELEMACHTJS. BOOK XVIII. 543 

endanger their virtue by trusting them with absolute power ; 
for many men who have stood firm against common tempta- 
tions, have fallen when unlimited authority and boundless 
wealth have brought their virtue to a severe test. The prince 
who shall be so far favored of the gods as to find two or three 
whose wisdom and virtue render them worthy of his friend- 
ship, will, by their means, find others of the same character to 
fill the inferior departments of State. Thus, by the few that 
he can trust, he will acquire the knowledge of others whom 
his own eye could never reach." 

" But I have often heard," said Telemachus, " that men of 
ability should be employed, even though virtue be wanting." 
" The service of such men," replied Mentor, " is sometimes 
necessary. When a nation is in a state of tumult and disorder, 
authority is often found in the hands of wicked and designing 
men, who are possessed of important employments, from which 
they cannot immediately be removed, and have acquired the 
confidence of persons in power, who must not abruptly be op- 
posed ; nor must they be abruptly opposed themselves, lest 
they should throw all things into irremediable confusion. They 
must be employed for a time, but care must constantly be 
taken to lessen their importance by degrees ; and even while 
they are employed, they must not be trusted. He that trusts 
them with a secret, invests them with power which they will 
certainly abuse, and of which from that moment he will be 
the slave. By his secret, as with a chain, he will be led about 
at pleasure ; and, however he may regret his bondage, he will 
find it impossible to be free. Let them negotiate superficial 
affairs, and be treated with attention and kindness ; let them 
be attached to their duty, even by their passions, for by their 
passions only they can be held ; but let them never be ad- 
mitted to secret and important deliberations. Some spring 
should be always ready to put them in motion when it is fit 
they should act ; but a king should never trust them with the 
key, either of his bosom or his State. When the public com- 
motion subsides, and government is regularly administered by 
men of approved integrity and wisdom, the wicked, whose 



544 WORKS OF FENELON. 

services were forced upon their prince for a time, will insen- 
sibly become unnecessary and insignificant. But even they 
should be well treated, for to be ungrateful even to the wicked, 
is to be like them ; but all kindness shown to such characters 
should be with a view to their amendment. Some of their 
faults should be overlooked as incident to human infirmity ; but 
the king's authority should be gradually resumed, and those 
mischiefs prevented, which they would openly perpetrate if not 
restrained. It must, however, be confessed, that, after all, the 
necessity of using wicked men as instruments of doing good, 
is a misfortune ; and though it is sometimes inevitable, it should 
be remedied as soon as possible. A wise prince, who has no 
wish but to establish order and administer justice, will soon 
find honest men of sufficient ability to effect his purposes, and 
be able to shake off the fraudulent and crafty, whose charac- 
ters disgrace the best service they can perform. 

" But it is not enough for a king to find good subjects ; he 
must make them." " That," said Telemachus, " must surely 
be an arduous task." " Not at all," replied Mentor ; " the very 
search after virtue and abilities will produce them, for re- 
wards well bestowed will excite universal emulation. How 
many languish in idleness and obscurity who would become 
distinguished, if the hope of fortune were to excite them to 
labor ! How many, despairing to rise by virtue, endeavor to 
surmount the distresses of poverty by crime ! If you distin- 
guish genius and virtue by rewards and honors, your subjects 
will excel in both characters by a voluntary and vigorous effort 
of their own ; and how much further may you carry this ex- 
cellence by gradually bringing forward the merit that is thus 
produced, and advancing those that appear capable of public 
and important service, from the lowest to the highest employ- 
ments ! You will exercise their various talents, and bring the 
extent of their understanding and the sincerity of their vir- 
tue to the test. Those who fill the great offices of State, will 
then have been brought up -under your own eye in lower 
stations. You will have followed them through life, step 
by step ; and you will judge of them, not from their profes- 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XYIH. 545 

sions, nor from a single act, but from the whole tenor of their 
conduct." 

While Mentor and Telemachus were engaged in this con- 
versation, they perceived a Phseacian vessel which had put into 
a little island wholly desolate, and surrounded by craggy preci- 
pices of an enormous height. It was at this time a dead calm, 
so that the zephyrs themselves seemed to hold their breath; 
the whole surface of the sea was bright and smooth as a mirror; 
the sails which clung to the mast could no longer impel the 
vessel in its course, and the rowers, exhausted with labor, en- 
deavored to supply the deficiency of the gale in vain. It be- 
came, therefore, absolutely necessary to go on shore at this 
place, which was rather a rock of the sea than a habitation 
for men. At another time it could not have been approached 
without the utmost danger. 

The Phaeacians, who were waiting for a wind, were not less 
impatient of delay than the mariners of Salentum. As soon as 
Telemachus was on shore, he advanced over the crags towards 
some of these people who had landed before him, and inquired 
of the first man he met whether he had seen Ulysses, the king 
of Ithaca, at the palace of Alcinous. 

It happened that the person to whom he addressed himself 
, was not a Phseacian, but a stranger, whose country was un- 
known. He had an air of majesty, but appeared sorrowful 
and dejected. When he was accosted, he was lost in thought, 
i and seemed not to hear the question that was asked him ; but, 
soon recollecting himself, he replied : " You suppose that 
Ulysses has been seen in the island of the Phaeacians, and you 
are not mistaken ; he was received at the palace of Alcinous, 
as at a place where the gods are reverenced and the duties of 
hospitality fulfilled ; but he soon after left that country, where 
you will now seek him in vain. He set out, that he might 
once more salute his household gods in Ithaca, if ever the 
superior powers should forget their anger and vouchsafe the 
blessing." 

The stranger pronounced these words in a mournful voice, 
and immediately rushed into a wild thicket upon the top of a 



546 WORKS OF FENELON. 

rock, where, fixing his eyes upon the sea, he seemed desirous 
of solitude and impatient to depart. 

Telemachus remarked him with great attention, and the 
m'ore he gazed the greater were his emotion and astonishment. 
" The answer of this stranger," said he to Mentor, " is that of a 
man so absorbed in affliction as scarcely to take cognizance of 
external objects. The unfortunate have my pity, for I am my- 
self unfortunate, and for this man I am particularly interested, 
without knowing why. He has not treated me with courtesy ; 
he seemed to pay no attention to what I said, and he scarcely 
vouchsafed me an answer, yet I cannot but wish that his mis- 
fortunes were at an end." 

" See, then," said Mentor with a smile, " what advantage is 
derived from the calamities of life ; they humble the pride of 
greatness, and soften insensibility to compassion. Princes who 
have been fatally flattered with perpetual prosperity, imagine 
themselves to be gods ; if they have an idle wish to be grati- 
fied, they expect mountains to sink and seas to vanish ; they 
hold mankind as nothing, and would have all nature the mere 
instrument of their will. When they hear of misfortune, they 
scarcely understand the term ; with respect to them misfortune 
is a dream, and they know not the difference between good 
and evil. Affliction only can teach them pity, and give them, 
for the adamant in their bosom, the heart of a man. When 
they are afflicted, they become sensible that they have a 
common nature with others, to whom they should administer 
the comfort of which they feel the want. If a stranger has thus 
forcibly excited your pity, because, like you, he is a wanderer 
upon the coast, how much more compassion should you feel 
for the people of Ithaca, if hereafter you should see them 
suffer — the people whom the gods will confide to your care, 
as a flock is confided to a shepherd — who may perhaps 
become wretched by your ambition, your prodigality, or im- 
prudence ; for nations are never wretched but by the fault of 
kings, who, like their guardian gods, should watch over them 
for good." 

To this discourse of Mentor, Telemachus listened with griei 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XYIII. 547 

and trouble, and at length, with some emotion, replied : " If 
these things are true, royalty is, of all conditions, the most 
wretched. A king is the slave of those whom he appears to 
command ; his people are not subordinate to him, but he is 
subordinate to his people ; all his powers and faculties are 
referred to them, as their object ; he is the servant, not only of 
the community, but of every individual ; he must supply all 
their wants, accommodate himself to all their weaknesses, cor- 
rect their vices, teach them wisdom, and afford them happiness. 
The authority with which he appears to be invested, is not his 
own ; he is not at liberty to exert it, either for his glory or his 
pleasure ; it is, indeed, the authority of the laws, to which he 
must himself be obedient, as an example to others. The laws 
must reign, and of their sovereignty he must be the defence ; 
for them he must pass the night in vigils, and the day in labor : 
he is less at liberty and at rest than any other in his dominions, 
for his own freedom and repose are sacrificed to the freedom 
and happiness of the public." 

"It is true," replied Mentor, "that a king is invested with 
authority only that he may be, to his people, what a shepherd 
is to his flock, or a father to his family ; but can you imagine, 
my dear Telemachus, that a king who is continually employed 
to make multitudes happy can himself be wretched? He 
.corrects the wicked by punishments ; he encourages the good 
.by rewards ; he forms the world to virtue, as a visible divinity, 
ithe vicegerent of heaven. Is it not sufficient glory to secure 
the laws from violation ? To affect'being above their authority, 
is not to acquire glory, but to become the object of detestation 
and contempt. A king, if he is wicked, must indeed be miser- 
able, for his passions and his vanity will keep him in perpetual 
tumult; but, if he is good, he will enjoy the purest and most 
sublime of all pleasures, in promoting the cause of virtue, and 
expecting an eternal recompense from the gods." 

Telemachus, whose mind was in great uneasiness and agita- 
tion, seemed, at this time, never to have comprehended these 
principles, though they had long been familiar to his mind, and 
he had often taught them to others. A splenetic humor, the 



548 WORKS OF FENELON. 

frequent concomitant of secret infelicity, disposed him, contrary 
to his own sentiments, to reject the truths which Mentor had 
explained, with subtle cavils and pertinacious contradiction. 
Among other objections, he urged the ingratitude of mankind. 
" What !" he exclaimed, " shall life be devoted to obtain the 
love of those who will, perhaps, hate you for the attempt, and 
to confer benefits upon wretches who may probably use them 
to your destruction ?" 

" Ingratitude," replied Mentor, with great calmness, " must 
be expected from mankind ; but, though mankind are ungrate- 
ful, we should not be weary of doing good ; we should serve 
them less for their own sakes, than in obedience to the gods, 
who command it. The good that we do is never lost ; if men 
forget it, it is remembered and rewarded by the gods. Besides, 
if the multitude are ungrateful, there will always be virtuous 
men, by whom virtue will be regarded with reverence and love. 
Even the multitude, however inconstant and capricious, will, 
sooner or later, be just to real virtue. 

"But, if you would prevent the ingratitude of mankind, do 
not load them with such benefits as, in the common estimation, 
are of most value ; do not endeavor to make them powerful 
and rich ; do not make them the dread or the envy of others, 
either by their prowess or their pleasures. This glory, this 
abundance, these delights will corrupt them ; they will become 
more wicked, and consequently more ungrateful. Instead, 
therefore, of offering them a fatal gift, a delicious poison, 
endeavor to improve their morals, to inspire them with juptice, 
sincerity, fear of the gods, humanity, fidelity, moderation, and 
disinterestedness. By implanting goodness, you will eradicate 
ingratitude. When you give virtue, you give a permanent and 
substantial good. Virtue will always attach those who receive 
it to the giver. Thus, by communicating real benefits, you 
will receive real benefit in return. The very nature of your 
gift will make ingratitude impossible. Is it strange that men 
should be ungrateful to princes, who have trained them to 
nothing but injustice and ambition, and taught them only to 
be jealous, arrogant, perfidious, and cruel? A prince must 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XYin. 549 

expect that his people will act towards him as he has taught 
them to act towards others. If he labors to render them good 
both by his example and authority, he will reap the reward of 
his labor from their virtue ; or, at least, in his own, and in the 
favor of the gods he will find abundant consolation for his dis- 
appointment." 

As soon as Mentor had done speaking, Telemachus advanced 
hastily towards the Phseacians, whose vessel lay at anchor near 
the shore. He found among them an old man, of whom he 
inquired whence they came, whither they were going, and 
whether he had seen Ulysses. 

" We have come," said the old man, " from our own island, 

Corcyra, and we are going for merchandise to Epirus. Ulys- 

I ses, as you have been told already, has been in our country, 

\ and has now left it." " But who," said Telemachus, " is he 

! that, while he waits for the departure of your vessel, seems to 

be absorbed in the contemplation of his own misfortunes, and 

retires to the most solitary parts of the island ?" " He," said 

the old man, " is a stranger, of whom we have no knowledge. 

It is said that his name is Cleomenes, that he is a native of 

Phrygia, 1 and that, before his birth, it was declared by an ora- 

\ cle to his mother, that, if he quitted his country, he should be 

■ a king ; but that, if he continued in it, the gods would denounce 

their anger against the Phrygians by a pestilence. He was, 

therefore, delivered to some sailors, by his parents, as soon as 

he was born, who conveyed him to the island of Lesbos, where 

he was privately educated at the expense of his country, which 

! had so great an interest in keeping him at a distance. As he 

'■ increased in stature, his person became at once comely and 

I robust, and he excelled in all exercises that render the body 

agile and strong : he also applied himself, with great genius 

1 and taste, to science and the arts; but no people would suffer 

1 him to continue among them. The prediction of the oracle 

concerning him became generally known, and he was soon 

discovered wherever he went : kings were everywhere jealous, 

1 A country of Asia Minor, to the east of Lydia. 






550 WORKS OF FENELON. 

lest he should supplant them in their thrones. Thus he be- 
came a fugitive from his youth, wandering about from country 
to country, without finding any place in which he might be 
allowed to remain. lie has visited nations very remote from 
his own, but the secret of his birth, and the oracle concerning 
him, is discovered as soon as he arrives. He endeavors to 
conceal himself wherever he goes, by entering into some ob- 
scure class oi life ; but he is soon discovered by his superior 
talents for war, literature, and government, which break out 
with irresistible splendor, notwithstanding his efforts to repress 
them. In every country he is surprised into the exertion of 
his abilities by some unforeseen occasion ; and these at once 
make him known to the public. His merit is his misfortune ; 
for this he is feared wherever he is known, and excluded from 
every country where he would reside. It is his destiny to be 
everywhere esteemed, beloved, and admired, but excluded 
from all civil societies upon earth. He is now advanced in 
years, and yet he has not hitherto been able to find any dis- 
trict either of Asia or Greece Avhere he may be permitted to 
live in unmolested obscurity. He appears to be wholly with- 
out ambition, and to desire neither honor nor riches, and if the 
oracle had not promised him royalty, he would think himself 
the happiest of mankind. He indulges no hope of returning 
to his native country, for he knows that to return thither would 
be to bring mourning and tears to every family. Even royalty 
itself, for which he suffers, is not desirable in his opinion ; he 
is fulfilling the condition upon which it is to be acquired in 
spite of himself, and, impelled by an unhappy fatality, he pur- 
sues it from kingdom to kingdom, while it flies like a splendid 
illusion before him, as it were to sport with' his distress, and 
continue an idle chase, till life itself shall have lost its value 
with its use. How fatal a gift is reserved for him by the gods ! 
How has it embittered those hours which youth would have 
devoted to joy ! and how has it aggravated the infirmities of 
age, when the only felicity of wearied nature is rest ! He is 
now going, he says, to Thrace, in search of some rude and 
lawless savages, whom he may collect into a society, civilize. 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVHI. 551 

and govern for a certain time ; that thus, having fulfilled the 
oracle, the most nourishing State may admit him without fear. 
If he succeeds in this design, he will immediately retire to a 
village in Caria, and apply himself wholly to his favorite em- 
ployment, agriculture. He is a wise man, his desires are 
moderate, he fears the gods, and he knows men, and though 
he does not think them worthy of esteem, can live peaceably 
among them. Such is the account that I have heard of the 
stranger after whom you inquire." 

Telemachus, while he was attending to this narrative, often 
turned his eyes towards the sea, which began to be troubled. 
The wind now swelled the surface into waves, which breaking 
against the rocks, whitened them with foam. The man ob- 
served it, and, turning hastily to Telemachus, said : " I must 
go, or my companions will sail without me." He then ran 
towards the vessel, — the mariners hurried on board, and a con- 
fused clamor echoed along the shore. 

The stranger, whom they called Cleomenes, had wandered 
about in the middle of the island, and climbing to the summit 
of many of the rocks, had eyed the boundless diffusion of 
waters around him with a fixed and mournful attention. Te- 
lemachus had still kept sight of him, and remarked him in 
every situation. His heart melted with compassion for a man, 
who, though virtuous, was wretched and a fugitive, formed for 
great achievements, yet condemned to be the sport of fortune, 
and a stranger to his country. " I," said he to himself, " may, 
perhaps, once more see Ithaca; but the return of this Cle- 
omenes to Phrygia is impossible." Thus Telemachus received 
comfort from contemplating the misery of a man more wretched 
than himself. 

The stranger no sooner perceived his vessel ready to sail, 

than he rushed down the craggy sides of the rock with as 

much agility and speed as Apollo bounds from precipice to 

| precipice in the forests of Lycia, 1 when, with his silver hair 

j gathered in a knot behind him, he pursues the stags and boars 

1 Apollo was especially worshipped in Lycia. 






552 WORKS OF FEKELON. 

that fly from the terrors of his bow in vain. When the stranger 
was on board, and his vessel, dividing the waves, gradually re- 
ceded from the shore, the heart of Telemachus died within 
him ; he felt the keenest affliction without knowing the cause ; 
the tears flowed unbidden from his eyes, and he found nothing 
so pleasing as to weep. 

In the mean time, the mariners of Salentum, overcome with 
fatigue, were stretched upon the grass near the beach in a 
profound sleep. A sweet insensibility was diffused through 
every nerve ; and the secret, but powerful influence of Mi- 
nerva had, in full day, scattered over them the dewy poppies 
of the night. Telemachus was astonished to see the Salentines 
thus resign themselves to sleep, while the Phaeacians, ever ac- 
tive and vigilant, had improved the favoring wind : yet he 
was more intent upon watching their vessel, which was now 
fading from his sight in the horizon, than upon recalling his 
mariners to their duty. A secret and irresistible sense of as- 
tonishment and concern kept his eyes fixed upon the bark which 
had left the island, and of which the sails only could be seen, 
that, by their whiteness, were just distinguished from the 
azure of the sea. Mentor called to him, but he was deaf to 
the voice ; his faculties seemed to be suspended, as in a trance, 
and he had no more the possession of himself than the frantic 
votaries of Bacchus, when, grasping the Thyrsus in their hands, 
the ravings of their phrensy are re-echoed from the banks of 
the Hebrus, 1 and the rude acclivities of Ismarus 2 and Rhodope. 3 

At length, however, the fascination was suspended; and, 
recovering his recollection, he again melted into tears. " I do 
not wonder," said Mentor, " my dear Telemachus, to see you 
weep ; for the cause of your trouble, though to you a secret, 
is known to me. Nature is the divinity that speaks within 
you ; it is her influence that you feel, and, at her touch, your 
heart has melted. A stranger has filled your breast with emo- 



1 The principal river of Thrace, which is now called Mariza. 
» Mountain of Thrace, now called Valiza, or Tourjan-Dag. 
* Another mountain of Thrace. 



TELEMACHTJS.- -BOOK XVIII. 553 

tion : that stranger is the great Ulysses. What the Phseacian 
has told you concerning him, under the name of Cleomenes, is 
nothing more than a fiction, invented more effectually to con- 
ceal his return to Ithaca, whither he is now going. He is 
already near the port; and the scenes, so long desired, are at 
length given to his view. You have seen him, as it was once 
foretold you, 1 but you have not known him. The time is at 
hand when you shall see him again ; when you shall know 
him, and be known by him ; but the gods could permit this 
only in Ithaca. His heart did not suffer less emotion than 
yours, but he is too wise to trust any man with his secret, 
while it might expose him to the treachery and insults of the 
pretenders to Penelope. Your father Ulysses is the wisest of 
mankind ; his heart is of uufathomable depth ; his secret lies 
beyond the line of subtlety and fraud. He is the friend of 
truth, and says nothing that is false ; but, when it is necessary, 
he conceals what is true ; his wisdom is, as it were, a seal upon 
his lips, which is never broken, but for an important purpose. 
He saw you, he spoke to you, yet he concealed himself from 
you. What a conflict must he have sustained, what anguish 
must he have felt ! Who can wonder at his dejection and 
sorrow ?" 

During this discourse, Telemachus stood fixed in astonish- 
ment, and at length burst into tears. His wonder was min- 
gled with the tenderest and deepest distress, and it was long 
before the sighs that struggled in his bosom would permit a 
reply. At length he cried out : " my dear Mentor, there 
was, indeed, something in this stranger that controlled all my 
heart — something that attracted and melted me — a powerful 
influence without a name. But, if you knew him, why did 
you not tell me, before he departed, that he was Ulysses? 
Why did you not speak to him yourself, and acquaint him 
that he was not unknown to you ? What do these mysteries 
conceal? Shall I be wretched forever? Will the gods, in 
their anger, doom me to the torments of Tantalus, whose burn- 

1 It was Calypso that foretold this, in book vi. 
24 



551 WORKS OF FE>~ELON. 

ing Lps a delusive stream approaches forever, and forever flies! 
O my father, hast thou escaped me forever ? Perhaps I shall 
see thee no more ! Perhaps the suitors of Penelope may take 
thee in the snares which they spread for me ! Oh, had I fol- 
lowed thee, then, if life had been denied us, we might at least 
have died together ! Ulysses, Ulysses, if thou shalt escape 
another shipwreck (which, from the persevering malice of for- 
tune, there is reason to doubt), I fear lest thou shouldst meet, 
at Ithaca, as disastrous a fate as Agamemnon at Mycene." But 
wherefore, O my dear Mentor, did you envy my good fortune ? 
Why have I not already embraced my father ? Why am I 
not now with him, in the port of Ithaca ? Why am I not 
fighting at his side, and exulting in the destruction of his 
enemies V 

" Let me now, my dear Telemachus," said Mentor, with a 
smile, " show thee to thyself, and thus acquaint thee with the 
weakness of mankind. To-day you are inconsolable, because 
rou have seen your father without knowing him. What would 
Tou have given, yesterday, to know that he was not dead ! 
To-day your own eyes assure you that he lives, and this assur- 
ance, which should transport you with joy, overwhelms you 
with distress. Thus do mankind, by the perverse depravity of 
their nature, esteem that which they have most desired as of 
no value the moment it is possessed, and torment themselves 
with fruitless wishes for that which is beyond their reach." 

" It is to exercise your patience that the gods thus hold you 
in suspense. You consider this time as lost, but be assured 
that it is, more than any other, improved. The distress which 
you now suffer will exercise you in the practice of that virtue 
which is of more importance than all others, to those who are 
born to command. Without patience you can be master nei- 
ther of others nor yourself. Impatience, which appears to be 
the force and vigor of the souk, is, indeed, a weakness — the 
want of fortitude to suffer pain. He that knows not how to 
wait for good, and to endure evil, is subject to the same imbe- 

1 An ancient city of Argolis, of which nothing but a few ruins remain. 



TELEMACHUS. — BOOK XVHI. 555 

cility as lie that cannot keep a secret ; they both want power 
to restrain the first impulse of the mind, and resemble a chari- 
oteer, whose hand has not strength to restrain his impatient 
coursers in their headlong speed ; they disdain the bridle, they 
rush forward with ungoverned fury, the chariot is overturned, 
and the feeble driver is crushed under the wheels. An impa- 
tient man is thus precipitated to ruin, by the violence of im- 
petuous and ungoverned desire. The more elevated his sta- 
tion, the more fatal his impatience. He waits for nothing, he 
despises deliberation, and takes all things, as it were, by storm ; 
every enjoyment is a violence and an injury ; he breaks down 
the branches to gather the fruit before it is ripe ; he forces the 
door, rather than wait till it is opened ; and resolves to reap, 
when the prudent husbandman would sow : all his actions are 
precipitate, and out of season ; all that he does, therefore, is 
done amiss, and must be futile and transient as his own desires. 
Such are the extravagant projects of a man who vainly imagines 
that he can do all things, and abandons himself to every impa- 
tient wish that prompts him to abuse his power. Your pa- 
tience is thus tried, my dear Telemachus, that you may learn 
to be patient ; and, for this cause, the gods have given you up 
to the caprice of fortune, and suffered you to be still a wander- 
er, to whom all things are uncertain. The great object of your 
hope has just appeared and vanished, like the fleeting images 
of a dream when the slumbers of the night are past, to apprise 
you that the blessings which we imagine to be within our 
grasp, elude us, and disappear in a moment. The best pre- 
cepts of the wise Ulysses would instruct you less than his 
absence, and the sufferings which, while you sought him, you 
have endured." 

Mentor then determined to bring the patience of Telem- 
achus to another trial, yet more severe than any that were 
past. At the moment, therefore, when the hero was urging 
the mariners to set sail without delay, Mentor suddenly stopped 
him, and proposed that they should offer a solemn sacrifice to 
Minerva upon the beach. Telemachus consented without re- 
monstrance or complaint. Two altars of turf were imme* 



556 WORKS OF FENELON. 

diately prepared, the incense smoked, and the blood of the 
victims was shed. The youth looked up to heaven with a sigh 
of tenderness and devotion, and acknowledged the powerful 
protection of the goddess. 

As soon as the sacrifice was ended, he followed Mentor into 
the darkest recess of a neighboring wood. Here he suddenly 
perceived the countenance of his friend assume a new form ; 
the wrinkles disappeared as the shadows of the night vanish 
when the rosy fingers of Aurora throw back the portals of the 
east, and kindle the horizon with the beams of day ; his eyes, 
which were keen and hollow, changed to a celestial blue, and 
sparkled with divine radiance ; his beard, grizzled and neg- 
lected, totally vanished, and the sight of Telemachus was 
dazzled by new features, which were at once mild and awful, 
lovely and majestic. He beheld the countenance of a woman, 
soft and delicate as the leaves of a flower just opening to the 
sun, and blooming with the tints both of the lily and the rose ; 
it was distinguished by the ineffable beauty of eternal youth, and 
the easy dignity of simple greatness. Her flowing hair filled 
the air with ambrosial odors ; and her robes shone with a 
various and a vivid splendor, like the clouds of heaven, which 
the sun diversifies and irradiates with his earliest light. The 
divinity was no longer supported by the earth, but reclined 
upon the air, in which she floated like a bird in its flight. In 
her hand was the shining lance, at which nations tremble, and 
Mars himself becomes sensible to fear. Her voice was sweet 
and placid, but penetrating and strong. Her words pierced 
the heart of Telemachus like shafts of fire, and thrilled him 
with a kind of delicious pain. Upon her helmet appeared the 
solitary bird of Athens, and her dreadful aegis glittered upon 
her breast. By these characteristics Telemachus knew that he 
beheld Minerva. 

" And is it thou thyself," said he, " goddess, who, for the 
love that thou bearest to Ulysses, hast vouchsafed guidance and 
protection to his son . . . ?" He would have said more, but 
his voice failed him ; and the thoughts that rushed with im- 
petuous tumult from his heart, his tongue labored in vain to 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVIII. 557 

express. He was overwhelmed by the presence of the divinity, 
like a man who is oppressed by the loss of breath in a dream, 
and who, although agonized with an effort to speak, can articu- 
late nothing. 

At length the goddess addressed him in these words : 
" Hear me, son of Ulysses, for the last time ! I have hith- 
erto favored no mortal with such instructions as I have vouch- 
safed to thee. In countries unknown, in shipwreck, in battle, 
in every situation of danger and distress by which the heart 
of man can be tried, 1 have been thy protection. For thee 
1 have illustrated by experiment all maxims of government, 
both false and true. 1 have improved not only thy misfor- 
tunes, but even thy faults into wisdom. Who can govern, that 
has never suffered ? Who can avoid error, but by experience 
of its evil ? 

"Thou hast filled earth and ocean with disastrous adven- 
tures like thy father, and art now worthy to follow him to 
Ithaca, where he has this moment arrived, and whither thy 
passage is short and easy. In battle let thy station be at his 
side ; obey him with implicit reverence, and let the meanest 
subject learn his duty from thy example. He will give Antiope 
to thy wishes ; in this alliance thy object was rather merit 
than beauty, and it shall be happy. 

" When thou shalt be invested with sovereign power, let it 
be thy only ambition to restore the golden age. Let thy ear 
be open to all, but let thy confidence be confined to few. 
Trust not implicitly to thy own virtue or thy own wisdom. 
Fear to deceive thyself, but fear not that others should know 
that thou hast been deceived. 

" Love thy people ; neglect nothing that may inspire them 
with love of thee. Those whom love cannot influence, must 
be ruled by fear ; but this expedient, like a violent and danger- 
ous remedy, should always be used with reluctance. 

" Undertake nothing of which thou hast not considered the 
most remote consequences ; look steadily at the future, what- 
ever evils it may present ; and know that true courage con- 
sists in the anticipation and contempt of necessary danger. 



553 WORKS OF FENELON. 

He who will not voluntarily look clanger in the face, will shrink 
from the sight when it is obtruded upon him ; he only is wise 
and brave who willingly looks on all that can be seen, who 
shuns all that can be shunned, and meets that which is inevit- 
able with equanimity. 

" Avoid luxury, profusion, and pomp, and place thy glory in 
simplicity. Let thy virtues be the ornaments of thy person 
and thy palace ; let these be the guards that surround thee ; 
and let thy example teach the world in what honor consists. 

" Let it be constantly present to thy mind, that kings reign 
not for their own glory, but for the good of their people. The 
virtues and the vices of kings entail happiness or misery upon 
mankind, to the remotest generations, and a bad reign some- 
times produces calamity for an age. 

" Above all, guard against thy humor : it is a bosom enemy, 
which every man is condemned to carry with him to the 
grave ; it will enter into all thy councils ; and, if indulged, 
will certainly pervert them. It will prevent thee from improv- 
ing opportunities of advantage ; it will prefer shadow to sub- 
stance, and determine important affairr by petty considerations. 
It obscures talents, depresses courage, and renders a man 
feeble, inconstant, odious, and contemptible. Against this 
enemy, be continually upon thy guard. 

" Let the fear of the gods, Telemachus, be the ruling pas- 
sion of thy heart : keep it sacred in thy bosom, as thy dear- 
est treasure ; for with this thou shalt possess wisdom and 
justice, tranquillity and joy, unpolluted pleasure, genuine free- 
dom, peaceful affluence, and spotless glory. 

" I now leave thee, son of Ulysses ! But, so long as thou 
shalt feel the want of my wisdom, my wisdom shall remain 
with thee. It is now time that thou shouldst walk by the light 
of thy own mind. I withdrew from thee in Egypt and at 
Salentum, that I might reconcile thee to the want of that 
assistance and comfort which I afforded, by degrees, as a 
mother weans an infant from the breast, when it is no longer 
necessary to feed it with milk, and it is able to subsist upon 
more solid food." 



TELEMACHUS. BOOK XVm. 559 

Such was the last counsel of Minerva to Telemachus ; and 
while her voice yet vibrated on his ear, he perceived her rise 
slowly from the earth, and, a cloud of intermingled azure and 
gold surrounding her, she disappeared. Telemachus stood a 
moment astonished and entranced ; then, sighing, prostrated 
himself upon the ground, and stretched out his hands towards 
heaven. After this homage was paid, he arose, awakened 
his companions, hastened their departure, arrived in Ithaca, 
and found his father under the friendly roof of his faithful 
Eumenes. 



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